and
the necessary check. Dazzling white, in perfect order, a second
Antoine for a chef, rooms furnished as you would your own villa. What
do you say?"

"Really?" asked Le Mire with sparkling eyes.

"Really."

"Here--in San Francisco?"

"In the harbor. I saw her myself this morning."

"Then I say--allons! Ah, my friend, you are perfection! I want to see
it. Now! May I? Come!"

I laughed at her eager enthusiasm as she sprang up from her chair.

"Le Mire, you are positively a baby. Something new to play with!
Well, you shall have it. But you haven't had breakfast. We'll go out
to see her this afternoon; in fact, I have already made an appointment
with the owner."

"Ah! Indeed, you are perfection. And--how well you know me." She
paused and seemed to be searching for words; then she said abruptly:
"M. Lamar, I wish you to do me a favor."

"Anything, Le Mire, in or out of reason."

Again she hesitated; then:

"Do not call me Le Mire."

I laughed.

"But certainly, Senora Ramal. And what is the favor?"

"That."

"That--"

"Do not call me Le Mire--nor Senora Ramal."

"Well, but I must address you occasionally."

"Call me Desiree."

I looked at her with a smile.

"But I thought that that was reserved for your particular friends."

"So it is."

"Then, my dear senora, it would be impertinent of me."

"But if I request it?"

"I have said--anything in or out of reason. And, of course, I am one
of the family."

"Is that the only reason?"

I began to understand her, and I answered her somewhat dryly: "My dear
Desiree, there can be none other."

"Are you so--cold?"

"When I choose."

"Ah!" It was a sigh rather than an exclamation. "And yet, on the
ship--do you remember? Look at me, M. Lamar. Am I not--am I so
little worthy of a thought?"

Her lips were parted with tremulous feeling; her eyes glowed with a
strange fire, and yet were tender. Indeed, she was "worthy of a
thought"--dangerously so; I felt my pulse stir. It was necessary to
assume a stoicism I was far from feeling, and I looked at her with a
cynical smile and spoke in a voice as carefully deliberate as I could
make it.

"Le Mire," I said, "I could love you, but I won't." And I turned and
left her without another word.

Why? I haven't the slightest idea. It must have been my vanity. Some
few men had conquered Le Mire; others had surrendered to her; certainly
none had ever been able to resist her. There w