fortune. Her name,
without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New
York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every
man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had
become fair game.

"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to
meet him."

He nodded.

"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting."

"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte.

"And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me."

If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day.

"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying,
not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very
nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my
fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my
stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the
cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did
want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not
want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm
too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish."

"To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned.

"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well
be thorough." She smiled.

Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at
odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren
who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an
utterly selfish life.

"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to
selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of
temperament?"

"And temperament," she asked, "is what?"

That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet
he had his own ideas.

"It's the way you're made," he suggested.

"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you
make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a
good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do."

"And you'd rather paint?"

She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to
be very honest with herself.

"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was
alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the
excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well,
just to be free seems enough. I do