hey are all looking at us."

"What of it?" He bent over her, his passionate eyes a caress. "Did I not
tell you, _carissima_ Was it not very heaven?"

Tony shook her head.

"I am afraid there was nothing heavenly about it. But it was wonderful. I
forgive you your boasting. You are the best dancer in the world. I am
sure of it."

"And you will dance with me again and again, my wonder-girl. You must.
You want to."

"I want to," admitted Tony. "But I am not going to--at least not again
to-night. Take me to a seat."

He did so and she sank down with a fluttering sigh beside Miss Lottie
Cressy, Carlotta's aunt. The latter stared at her, a little oddly she
thought, and then looked up at Alan Massey.

"You don't change, do you, Alan?" observed Miss Cressy.

"Oh yes, I change a great deal. I have been very different ever since I
met Miss Tony." His eyes fell on the girl, made no secret of his emotions
concerning her and her beauty.

Miss Cressy laughed a little sardonically.

"No doubt. You were always different after each new sweetheart, I recall.
So were they--some of them."

"You do me too much honor," he retorted suavely. "Shall we not go out,
Miss Holiday? The garden is very beautiful by moonlight."

She bowed assent, and together they passed out of the room through the
French window. Miss Cressy stared after them, the bitter little smile
still lingering on her lips.

"Youth for Alan always," she said to herself. "Ah, well, I was young,
too, those days in Paris. I must tell Carlotta to warn Tony. It would be
a pity for the child to be tarnished so soon by touching his kind too
close. She is so young and so lovely."

Alan and Tony strayed to a remote corner of the spacious gardens and
came to a pause beside the fountain which leaped and splashed and caught
the moonlight in its falling splendor. For a moment neither spoke. Tony
bent to dip her fingers in the cool water. She had an odd feeling of
needing lustration from something. The man's eyes were upon her. She was
very young, very lovely, as Miss Cressy had said. There was something
strangely moving to Alan Massey about her virginal freshness, her
moonshine beauty. He was unaccustomed to compunction, but for a fleeting
second, as he studied Tony Holiday standing there with bowed head,
laving her hands in the sparkling purity of the water, he had an impulse
to go away and leave her, lest he cast a shadow upon her by his
lingering near her.

It was only f