"I am afraid you won't meet your hero of all the virtues," he said, "even in a picturesque old continental town. But I think I understand your feeling. It is the principle of good in you demanding its proper companionship and setting." "Yes, that is it," she said, softly. "That is it. I am no worse than other girls; but I flirt and waste my time abominably. It would be all right if I did no more thinking than they do; but I do so much that, if I were inclined to be religious, I believe I'd run, one of these days, into a convent. However, I can always look forward to the old European town." "Alone?" "I suppose when your left eyebrow goes up like that you're trying to flirt. I don't know that I'd mind being alone, particularly. It would be several thousand times better than the society of some of the people I've been forced to associate with. I love art,--particularly architecture and music,--and I'm sure I could weave a romance round myself. Yes, I'm sure I should love it as much as I hate this country," she added with such vehemence that Thorpe set down his fork abruptly. "You are very pale," he said; "I think you had better take a little champagne. Indeed, you must be utterly worn out. I can imagine what a lot you have had to do and think of to-day." He filled her glass, and she drank the champagne quickly. "I have a shocking head," she said; "but I _need_ this. I have been out eight nights in succession, and have been on the go all day besides. Mother never attends to anything; and father, of course, is too busy to bother with parties. Cochrane and I have to do everything." "Tell me some more of your ideals," said Thorpe. He was not sure that he liked her, but she piqued his curiosity. "Ideals? Who ever had an ideal after a glass of champagne--except to be in the wildest spirits for the rest of one's life? There will be no champagne in Bruges--that's the city I've settled on; but I can't even think of Bruges. Champagne suggests Paris, and they tell me Paris is even more wicked than San Francisco. Is it?" Her eyes were sparkling with merriment; but although she refilled her glass, there was no suggestion as yet of the bacchante about her. The colour had come back to her face, and she looked very charming. Nevertheless Thorpe frowned and shook his head. "I should prefer to talk about Bruges," he said. "I've been there, and can tell you all you'd like to know. When I go back, I'll send you some photographs." "Thanks--but I have a whole portfolio full. I want to hear about Paris. I'm afraid you're a bit of a prig." "No man could be less of a prig. I hope you are above the silly idea that, because we English have a slightly higher standard than other nations, it follows that we are prigs. You were entirely delightful a few moments ago; but I don't like to see a woman drink when it affects her as it does you."