t the clever little actress
laughing at him behind the blue eyes of a child. "You must know that
there can't be two opinions of your dancing," said he coolly. "You have
had years and years of flattery, of course; enough to make you sick of
it, if a woman ever----" He stopped, smiling.

"Why, I've been dancing professionally for only a few months!" she
exclaimed. "Didn't you know?"

"I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant," Stephen confessed. "But before the
dancing, there must have been something else equally clever.
Floating--or flying--or----"

She laughed. "Why don't you suggest fainting in coils? I'm certain you
would, if you'd ever read 'Alice.'"

"As a matter of fact, I was brought up on 'Alice,'" said Stephen. "Do
children of the present day still go down the rabbit hole?"

"I'm not sure about children of the _present_ day. Children of my day
went down," she replied with dignity. "I loved Alice dearly. I don't
know much about other children, though, for I never had a chance to make
friends as a child. But then I had my sister when I was a little girl,
so nothing else mattered."

"If you don't think me rude to say so," ventured Stephen, "you would
seem to me a little girl now, if I hadn't found out that you're an
accomplished star of the theatres, admired all over Europe."

"Now you're making fun of me," said the dancer. "Paris was only my third
engagement; and it's going to be my last, anyway for ever so long, I
hope."

This time Stephen was really surprised, and all his early interest in
the young creature woke again; the personal sort of interest which he
had partly lost on finding that she was of the theatrical world.

"Oh, I see!" he ejaculated, before stopping to reflect that he had no
right to put into words the idea which jumped into his mind.

"You see?" she echoed. "But how can you see, unless you know something
about me already?"

"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "It was only a thought. I----"

"A thought about my dancing?"

"Not exactly that. About your not dancing again."

"Then please tell me the thought."

"You may be angry. I rather think you'd have a right to be angry--not at
the thought, but the telling of it."

"I promise."

"Why," explained Stephen, "when a young and successful actress makes up
her mind to leave the stage, what is the usual reason?"

"I'm not an actress, so I can't imagine what you mean--unless you
suppose I've made a great fortune in a few months?"

"Tha