"Don't you believe it. The king of Greece and the sultan both considered the honor conferred upon us as good advertising." "You are laughing." "Well, war in the Balkans is generally a laughing matter. Sounds brutal, I know, but it is true." "I know," gaily. "You are conceited, and are trying to make me believe that you are modest." "A bull's-eye!" "And this Mr. Breitmann has been decorated for valor? And yet to-day he becomes my father's private secretary. The two do not connect." "May I ask you to mention nothing of this to him? It would embarrass him. I had no business to bring him into it." She grew meditative, brushing her lips with the blossoms. "He will be something of a mystery. I am not overfond of mysteries outside of book covers." "There is really no mystery; but it is human for a man in his position to wish to bury his past greatness." By and by the sun touched the southwest shoulder of the hill, and the two strolled back to the house. From his window, Breitmann could see them plainly. "Damn those scars!" he murmured, striking with his fist the disfigured cheek, which upon a time had been a source of pride and honor. "Damn them!" CHAPTER IX THEY DRESS FOR DINNER Breitmann watched them as long as he could. There was no jealousy in his heart, but there was bitterness, discontent, a savage self-pillorying. He was genuinely sorry that this young woman was so pretty; still, had she the graces of Calypso, he must have come. She would distract him, and he desired at that time distraction least of all diversions. Concentration and singleness of purpose--upon these two attributes practically hung his life. How strangely fate had stepped with him. What if there had not been that advertisement for a private secretary? How then should he have gained a footing in this house? Well, here he was, and speculation was of no value, save in a congratulatory sense. The fly in the amber was the presence of the young American; Fitzgerald, shrewd and clever, might stumble upon something. Well, till against that time! His room was pleasant, a corner which gave two excellent views, one of the sea and the other of the orchard. There was no cluttering of furniture; it was simple, substantial, decently old. On the plain walls were some choice paintings. A landscape by Constable, a water color by Fortuny, and a rough sketch by Detaille; and the inevitable marines, such as one might expect in the house of a fighting sailor. He examined these closely, and was rather pleased to find them valuable old prints. And, better to his mind than all these, was the deft, mysterious touch or suggestion of a woman's hand. He saw it in the pillows on the lounge, in the curtains dropping from the windows, in the counterpane on the old four-poster.