“Tell me about her,” she said. “I never knew she had been an actress.” He drove her back to Paris, and she promised to come and see him in his studio and let him introduce her to his artist friends.!

“You’re not angry with me?” he asked. “I haven’t been rude, have I?” Mr. Sam Halliday she liked at once. He was a clean-shaven, square-jawed young man, with quiet eyes and a pleasant voice.

“Oh, yes, there’s no make-believe this time,” answered the girl. “A bad thing for her if he wasn’t.” “Well, you see, dear,” explained the little old lady, “he gave up things. He could have ridden in his carriage”—she was quoting, it seemed, the words of the Carlyles’ old servant—“if he’d written the sort of lies that people pay for being told, instead of throwing the truth at their head.” “It has been responsible for most of man’s miseries,” he answered. “Every world’s conqueror meant to make it happy after he had finished knocking it about. We are all born with it, thanks to the devil.” He shifted his position and regarded her with critical eyes. “You’ve got it badly,” he said. “I can see it in the tilt of your chin and the quivering of your nostrils. You beware of it.”