ame," he said, and stood stubbornly the width of the alcove from
her, though he was conscious of all tender words rushing to his lips.
She was so adorable; a woman in mentality, but the veriest girl as to
the emotions his words had awakened.

"Monsieur," she said, without looking at him, "I do not truly believe
you meant to offend me; therefore I have nothing to forgive."

"You angel!" he half whispered, but she heard him.

"No, I am not that," and she flashed a quick glance at him, "only I
think I comprehend you, and to comprehend is to forgive, is it not?
I--I cannot listen to the--affection you speak of. Love and marriage
are not for me. Did not the Egyptian say it? Yes; that was quite true.
But I can shake hands in good-bye, Monsieur Incognito. Your English
people always do that, eh? Well, so will I."

She held out her hand; he took it in both his own and his lips touched
it.

"No! no!" she said softly, and shook her head; "that is not an English
custom." He lifted his head and looked at her.

"Why do you call me English?" he asked, and she smiled, glad to break
that tenseness of feeling by some commonplace.

"It was very simple, Monsieur; first it was the make of your hat,
I read the name of the maker in the crown that day in the park;
then you spoke English; you said you had just arrived from England;
and the English are so certain to get lost unless they go in
groups--therefore!"

She had enumerated all those reasons on her white fingers. She glanced
at him, with an adorable smile as a finale, so confident she had
proven her case.

"And you French have no fondness for the English people," he said
slowly, looking at her. "I wear an American uniform tonight; suppose I
am an American? I am tempted to disobey and tell you who I am, in
hopes you will not send me into exile quite so soon."

"No, no, _no_!" she breathed hurriedly. "You must go; and you must
remain Monsieur Incognito; thus it will be only a comedy, a morsel of
romance. But if I knew you well--ah! I do not know what it would be
then. I am afraid to think. Yes, I confess it, Monsieur, you make me
afraid. I tell myself you are a foreign ogre, yet when you speak to
me--ah!"

She put out her hands as he came close. But he knelt at her feet,
kissing her hands, her wrists, the folds of her dress, then lifted his
face glowing, ardent, to her own.

"I shall make you love me some day," he whispered; "not now, perhaps,
but some day."

She stared a