glanced about them at the crowd of passers-by.

"It is not pleasant here; let us take a walk by the river, and then we
can talk and come to know each one the other,"--he paused--"well," he
added.

"Do you really want to know me--well?" she asked, imitating his pause
between the last two words.

"Yes, very much. I saw you in the hotel this morning when you came down
the stair, and I wanted to know you then. And just now when we passed on
the Quai I felt the want become much greater."

"And I wanted to know you," she said, looking and speaking with
delicious frankness. "I wanted to know you because of your music."

"Because of my music!" he repeated quickly; "you are then of interest in
the music? you are yourself perhaps a musician?" and he turned a glance,
as deep as it was burning, upon her face.

"A very every-day musician," she replied, lifting her smile to his deep
attention. "I can accompany the musician and I can appreciate him, that
is all."

"But that is quite of the best--in a woman," he exclaimed earnestly.
"The women were not meant to be the genius, only to help him, and rest
him after his labor."

"Really!"

"Of a surety."

"But what made you want to know me?" she continued. "I had a good reason
for desiring your acquaintance, but you can have had no equally good one
for desiring mine."

"No," he said quickly and decidedly; "that is, of an undenying, most
true." He knit his brows and reflected for the space of time consumed in
passing nine of the regularly disposed trees which shade the boulevard
just there, for they were now moving slowly in the direction of the
bridges, and then he spoke. "I do not know just why, yet I am glad that
it is to be."

"Would you have asked some one to introduce you if I had not sent for
you?"

He thought again, this time for the space of six trees only, then:

"No, I do not think so."

"Why not? since you wanted to meet me."

"I never get myself made known to any one, because if I did that, then
later, when they weary me, as they nearly always do, I must blame myself
only."

"Do most people weary you--later."

"Oh, so very much," he declared, with a sincerity that drew no veil over
the truth of his statement.

Rosina, remembering the American's views in regard to him, stifled a
smile.

"Our friend," she asked, "the man who presented you to me, you know,
does he weary you?"

Von Ibn frowned.

"But he is a very terrible bore," he said; "you surely