with eyes of ingratiating
sapphire--"I've always been interested in finding out just what you
are, anyway."

Far back in Pollen's own eyes of golden brown a little spark slowly
burst into flame. It was exactly as if a gnome had lighted a lantern at
the back of an unknown cave. Mrs. Ennis inwardly shuddered, but
outwardly was gay.

How interminably men talked when once they were launched upon that
favorite topic, themselves! Pollen showed every indication of reaching a
point of intellectual intoxication where his voice would become
antiphonal. His objective self was taking turns in standing off and
admiring his subjective self. Mrs. Ennis wondered at her own kindness of
heart. Why did she permit herself to suffer so for her friends; in the
present instance, a friend who would probably--rather the contrary--by
no means thank her for her pains? She wanted to talk to Burnaby. She was
missing most of his visit. She wanted to talk to Burnaby so greatly that
the thought made her cheeks burn faintly. She began to hate Pollen. Mary
Rochefort's cool, young voice broke the spell.

"You told me," she said accusingly, "that this man--this Mr. Burnaby,
has all the primitive virtues; he is the wickedest man I have ever met."

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Ennis.

"The very wickedest!"

Pollen's mouth twisted under his mustache. "I wouldn't have suspected
it," he observed, surveying Burnaby with ironic amusement. There was
just a hint of hidden condescension in his voice.

Burnaby's eyes drifted past him with a look of quiet speculation in
their depths, before he smiled at Mrs. Ennis.

"Roumania has changed you," she exclaimed.

He chuckled. "Not in the least! I was simply trying to prove to Madame
de Rochefort that hot-bloodedness, coolly conceived, is the only
possible road to success. Like most innately moral people, she believes
just the opposite--in cool-bloodedness, hotly conceived."

"I moral?" said Mary Rochefort, as if the thought had not occurred to
her before.

"Why, of course," said Burnaby. "It's a question of attitude, not of
actual performance. The most moral man I ever knew was a habitual
drunkard. His life was spent between debauch and disgust. Not, of
course, that I am implying that with you--"

"Tell us what you meant in the first place," commanded Mrs. Ennis.

"Something," said Burnaby slowly, "totally un-American--in short,
whole-heartedness." He clasped his sinewy, brown hands on the
table-cloth. "I