Bucky drew a handful of change from his pocket and selected a gold eagle. “I suppose I must cross your palm with gold,” he said, even while his subconscious mind was running on the new complication presented to him by this discovery. He was very clear about one thing. He must not let her know that he knew her for a girl. To him she must still be a boy, or their relation would become impossible. She had trusted in her power to keep her secret from him. On no other terms would she have come with him; of so much he was sure, even while his mind groped for a sufficient reason to account for an impulse that might have impelled her. If she found out that he knew, the knowledge would certainly drive her at once from him. For he knew that not the least charm of the extraordinary fascination she had for him lay in her sweet innocence of heart, a fresh innocence that consisted with this gay Romany abandon, and even with a mental experience of the sordid, seamy side of life as comprehensive as that of many a woman twice her age. She had been defrauded out of her childish inheritance of innocence, but, somehow, even in her foul environment the seeds of a rare personal purity had persistently sprung up and flourished. Some flowers are of such native freshness that no nauseous surroundings can kill their fragrance. And this was one of them. Meanwhile, her voice ran on with the patter of her craft. There was the usual dark woman to be circumvented and the light one to be rewarded. Jealousies and rivalries played their part in the nonsense she glibly recited, and somewhere in the future lay, of course, great riches and happiness for him. With a queer little tug at his heart he watched the dainty finger that ran so lightly over his open palm, watched, too, the bent head so gracefully fine of outline and the face so mobile of expression when the deep eyes lifted to his in question of the correctness of her reading. He would miss the little partner that had wound himself so tightly round his heart. He wondered if he would find compensating joy in this exquisite creature whom a few moments had taken worlds distant from him. Suddenly tiring of her diversion, she dropped his hand. “You don’t say I do it well,” she charged, aware suspiciously, at last, of his grave silence. “You do it very well indeed. I didn’t think you had it in you, kid. What’s worrying me is that I can never live up to such a sure enough gipsy as you.” “All you have to do is to look sour and frown if anybody gets too familiar with me. You can do that, can’t you?” “You bet I can,” he answered promptly, with unnecessary emphasis. “And look handsome,” she teased. “Oh, that will be easy for me—since you are going to make me up. As a simple child of nature I’m no ornament to the scenery, but art’s a heap improving sometimes.”