seur.

"I like it myself," Celia admitted, and blew a little smoke-ring toward
him. "I've made this whole room to match it. The colors, I mean," she
explained, in deference to his uplifted brows. "Between us, we make up
what Whistler would call a symphony. That reminds me--I was going to
play for you. Let me finish the cigarette first."

Theron felt grateful for her reticence about the fact that he had laid
his own aside. "I have never seen a room at all like this," he remarked.
"You are right; it does fit you perfectly."

She nodded her sense of his appreciation. "It is what I like," she
said. "It expresses ME. I will not have anything about me--or anybody
either--that I don't like. I suppose if an old Greek could see it, it
would make him sick, but it represents what I mean by being a Greek. It
is as near as an Irishman can get to it."

"I remember your puzzling me by saying that you were a Greek."

Celia laughed, and tossed the cigarette-end away. "I'd puzzle you more,
I'm afraid, if I tried to explain to you what I really meant by it. I
divide people up into two classes, you know--Greeks and Jews. Once you
get hold of that principle, all other divisions and classifications,
such as by race or language or nationality, seem pure foolishness. It
is the only true division there is. It is just as true among negroes
or wild Indians who never heard of Greece or Jerusalem, as it is among
white folks. That is the beauty of it. It works everywhere, always."

"Try it on me," urged Theron, with a twinkling eye. "Which am I?"

"Both," said the girl, with a merry nod of the head. "But now I'll play.
I told you you were to hear Chopin. I prescribe him for you. He is the
Greekiest of the Greeks. THERE was a nation where all the people were
artists, where everybody was an intellectual aristocrat, where the
Philistine was as unknown, as extinct, as the dodo. Chopin might have
written his music for them."

"I am interested in Shopang," put in Theron, suddenly recalling
Sister Soulsby's confidences as to the source of her tunes. "He lived
with--what's his name--George something. We were speaking about him only
this afternoon."

Celia looked down into her visitor's face at first inquiringly, then
with a latent grin about her lips. "Yes--George something," she said, in
a tone which mystified him.

The Rev. Mr. Ware was sitting up, a minute afterward, in a ferment of
awakened consciousness that he had never heard the piano play