rmed opinions of his own
upon most subjects. He had thought for himself and had the courage of
his convictions, and Americans like that.

Naturally enough, before many days, at a fashionable ball at the Plaza
he came into contact with Opal Ledoux again.

It was a new experience, this, to see the girl he loved surrounded by
the admiration and attention of other men. In his own infatuation he had
not realized that most men would be affected by her as he was, would
experience the same maddening impulses--the same longing--the same
thirst for possession of her. Now the fact came home to him with the
force of an electric shock. He could not endure the burning glances of
admiration that he saw constantly directed toward her. What right had
other men to devour her with their eyes?

He hastened to meet her. She greeted him politely but coldly, expressing
some perfunctory regret when he asked for a dance, and showing him that
her card was already filled. And then her partner claimed her, and she
went away on his arm, smiling up into his face in a way she had that
drove men wild for her. "The wicked little witch!" Paul thought. "Would
she make eyes at every man like that? Dare she?"

A moment after, he heard her name, and instantly was all attention. The
two men just behind him were discussing her rather freely--far too
freely for the time and the place--and the girl, in Paul's estimation.
He listened eagerly.

"Bold little devil, that Ledoux girl!" said one. "God! how she is
playing her little game to-night! They say she is going to marry that
old French Count, de Roannes! That's the fellow over there, watching her
with the cat's eyes. I guess he thinks she means to have her fling
first--and I guess she thinks so too! As usual, it's the spectator who
sees the best of the game. What a curious girl she is--a living
paradox!"

"How's that?"

"Spanish, you know. Ought to have black hair instead of red--black eyes
instead of--well, chestnut about expresses the color of hers. I call
them witch's eyes, they're so full of fire and--the devil!"

"She's French, too, isn't she? That accounts for the eyes. The _beaute
du diable_, hers is! Couldn't she make a heaven for a man if she
would--or a hell?"

"Yes, it's in her! She's doomed, you know! Her grandmothers before her
were bad women--regular witches, they say, with a good, big streak of
yellow. Couldn't keep their heads on their shoulders--couldn't be
faithful to any one man.