r hip, she stood with her right foot thrust
forward from beneath the yellow robe and pivoting upon the heel of its
little slipper. Her head tilted, she watched him through lowered lashes.

"It was not so with you in Moulmein," she said, her silvery voice
lowered caressingly. "Do you remember with me a night beside the
Irawaddi?--where was that I wonder? Was it in Prome?--Perhaps, yes?...
you threatened me to leap in, if... and I think to believe you!--I
believing you!"

"Mahara!" cried Gianapolis, and sought to seize her in his arms.

Again she struck down his hand with the little fan, watching him
continuously and with no change of expression. But the smoldering fire
in those eyes told of a greater flame which consumed her slender
body and was potent enough to consume many a victim upon its altar.
Gianapolis' yellow skin assumed a faintly mottled appearance.

"Whatever is the matter?" he inquired plaintively.

"So you must be off--yes? I hear you say it; I asking you who to meet?"

"Why do you speak in English?" said Gianapolis with a faint irritation.
"Let us talk..."

She struck him lightly on the face with her fan; but he clenched his
teeth and suppressed an ugly exclamation.

"Who was it?" she asked, musically, "that say to me, 'to hear you
speaking English--like rippling water'?"

"You are mad!" muttered Gianapolis, beginning to drill the points of
his mustache as was his manner in moments of agitation. His crooked eyes
were fixed upon the face of the girl. "You go too far."

"Be watching, my friend, that you also go not too far."

The tones were silvery as ever, but the menace unmistakable. Gianapolis
forced a harsh laugh and brushed up his mustache furiously.

"What are you driving at?" he demanded, with some return of
self-confidence. "Am I to be treated to another exhibition of your
insane jealousies?"...

"AH!" The girl's eyes opened widely; she darted another venomous glance
at him. "I am sure now, I am SURE!"

"My dear Mahara, you talk nonsense!"

"Ah!"

She glided sinuously toward him, still with one hand resting upon her
hip, stood almost touching his shoulder and raised her beautiful wicked
face to his, peering at him through half-closed eyes, and resting the
hand which grasped the fan lightly upon his arm.

"You think I do not see? You think I do not watch?"--softer and softer
grew the silvery voice--"at Olaf van Noord's studio you think I do not
hear? Perhaps you not thinking to ca