“Isn’t dar-rling a difficult word—hard to say seriously? Fancy caring that much for any one—I mean any one of one’s own sex. Of course, I hope really to love a man that much some day. That is, I do unless I go in for a career. Careers _do_ keep one from getting fat, though. As I am constantly telling my mother——” “S-sh!” Pape was relieved by Mrs. Allen’s silencing sibilant. CHAPTER VI—JUST AU REVOIR The great audience caught its breath and hopefully returned attention to the affairs of the French actress who so had shocked and fascinated them at the first act’s end. Stripped almost to the waist, the daring and tuneful Zaza had left them. More conventionally, not to say comfortably clad, she reappeared. Pape, as deficient in French as in appreciation of opera arias, applied himself hopefully at first to getting the gist of the piece, but soon concluded that he must be clear “off trail in his lingo.” Out in Montana, the most meteoric stage luminary never would think of singing a perfectly good wife and mother into handing over husband and father merely because his eyes had gone sort of blinky star-gazing at her. No. Such a translation didn’t sound reasonable at all; was quite too raw for the range. Better give his ears to the music and buy a Hoyle-translated libretto to-morrow. Settling back in his chair, Pape allowed his gaze and mind to concentrate, after a habit acquired of late in Central Park, upon the nearby. She had an expressive profile, the young woman whom he had self-selected. If facial traits had real connection with character, that protruding chin, although curved too youthfully to do justice to its joints, suggested that she would not retreat unless punished beyond her strength. If young Irene only would take one good look at her cousin’s chin she must give up in any contest between them. But then, Irene’s mental eye was on herself. To her, evidently, all other women were more or less becoming backgrounds. That she should be so near him, Jane; that he actually should get—oh, it wasn’t imagination—the fragrance of her hair; yet that he should be so far away! ... She’d be annoyed and he must not do it, but he felt tempted to train his hired glasses on her, as she had trained hers on him only a few minutes since. He’d have liked again to draw her eyes close to his through their lensed aid and study out the answer to that teasing question—did she or did she not know that she didn’t know him? One thing was clear in the semi-gloom. Her neck and shoulders and back looked more like marble than he’d have supposed live flesh could look. And her lines were lovely—not too padded over to conceal the shoulder blades, yet smooth. Above the narrow part of the V of silver lace, a small, dark dot emphasized her whiteness. Was it a freckle or a mole?