of progress; and Desiree Le Mire had consented to a two weeks'
engagement at the Stuyvesant.

The French dancer was the favorite topic of discussion in all circles.

The newspapers were full of her and filled entire columns with lists of
the kings, princes, and dukes who had been at her feet.

Bets were made on her nationality, the color of her eyes, the value of
her pearls, the number of suicides she had caused--corresponding, in
some sort, to the notches on the gun of a Western bad man. Gowns and
hats were named for her by the enterprising department stores.

It was announced that her engagement at the Stuyvesant would open in
ten days, and when the box-office opened for the advance sale every
seat for every performance was sold within a few hours.

In the mean time the great Le Mire kept herself secluded in her hotel.
She had appeared but once in the public dining-room, and on that
occasion had nearly caused a riot, whereupon she had discreetly
withdrawn. She remained unseen while the town shouted itself hoarse.

I had not mentioned her name to Harry, nor had I heard him speak of
her, until one evening about two weeks after my return.

We were at dinner and had been discussing some commonplace subject,
from which, by one of the freaks of association, the conversation
veered and touched on classical dancing.

"The Russians are preeminent," said I, "because they possess both the
inspiration--the fire--and the training. In no other nation or school
are the two so perfectly joined. In the Turkish dancers there is
perfect grace and freedom, but no life. In Desiree Le Mire, for
example, there is indeed life; but she has not had the necessary
training."

"What? Le Mire! Have you seen her?" cried Harry.

"Not on the stage," I answered; "but I crossed on the same ship with
her, and she was kind enough to give me a great deal of her time. She
seems to understand perfectly her own artistic limitations, and I am
taking her word for it."

But Harry was no longer interested in the subject of dancing. I was
besieged on the instant with a thousand questions.

Had I known Le Mire long? What was she like? Was it true that Prince
Dolansky had shot himself in despair at losing her? Was she beautiful?
How well did I know her? Would I take him to see her?

And within half an hour the last question was repeated so many times
and with such insistence that I finally consented and left Harry
delighted beyond words.