e other side. That is it; they talk, talk. Italy, France,
Germany! Why, I had rather be the son of an English farmer than a prince
on the continent. And I had rather be what I am than the greatest
nobleman in England."

"Go on, go on! I like it. What do you call it--jingo?"

"Call it what you will. Look at the men we produce. Three or four
hundred years ago Europe gave us great poets, great artists, great
soldiers, great churchmen, and great rascals. I admire a great rascal,
when he is a Napoleon, a Talleyrand, a Machiavelli; but a petty one! We
have no art, no music, no antiquity; but we have a race of gentlemen.
The old country is not breeding them nowadays."

"No, she simply prints new editions of the _Almanach_. Continue; I am
becoming illumined."

"If I am boring you?"

"No. I have the greatest admiration for the American gentleman. My
father was one. But I have met Americans who are not so loyal as you
are, who see no good in their native land."

"I said we have beasts; I forgot to mention the cads. I am perfectly
frank. Italy is the most beautiful country in the world; France is
incomparable; Germany possesses a rugged beauty which I envy for my
country's sake. Every square foot of it is cultivated; nowhere the
squalidity one sees among the farm-houses of this country. Think of the
histories, the romance, the art, the music! America has little history;
and, saving the wildernesses, it is not beautiful; but it is generous
and bountiful and healthy mentally. Europe is a story-world, and I
should like nothing better than to read it to the end of my days."

"Signora, dinner is served!" The little maid stood between the sliding
doors which gave entrance to the dining-room.

Signora! thought Hillard. He certainly would look at her hands again.

"After you, Mr. Hillard," she said.

He bowed and passed on before her. But not till he had passed did he
understand the manoeuver. To follow her would have been nothing less
than the temptation to pluck at the strings of her mask. Would he have
touched it? He could not say, the temptation not having been his.

That dinner! Was he in New York? Was it not Bagdad, the bottle and the
genii? Had he ever, even in his most romantic dreams, expected to turn a
page so charming, so enchanting, or so dangerous to his peace of mind? A
game of magical hide-and-seek? To see, yet to be blindfolded! Here,
across the small table, within arm's length, was a woman such as, had he
bee