"Speaking of Bohemia," Dolores said, "with all its charms, I do not believe I am a Bohemian by nature. I am really fond of ceremonies and imposing forms. I enjoy the most impressive services in divine worship. Had I been reared in the Roman Church, I would have made one of its most devout members. I like conventional life, but I do not like the people I meet in those circles." "And yet," Percy answered, "it is generally supposed that in exclusive circles one finds all that is choice." "But it is a great mistake," continued Dolores. "It may be true that whatever is choice is always exclusive; but whatever is exclusive is not always choice. One finds so little variety in the people one meets in the so-called best society anywhere. They are all after one pattern, and society does not tolerate individual tastes and ideas, you know. So you see I am obliged to select my congenial friends as I may, and create a Bohemia of my own." "Which immediately becomes a Paradise," her listener answered gallantly. "Don't," ejaculated Dolores with a pained expression, "it sounds so like--well, so like other men." "And am I not like other men?" Percy asked, smiling and secretly pleased. Nothing flatters a man's vanity more than being told he is not like other men. "I never imagined myself to be a distinct type." "But you are; or at least you have seemed so to me. And that is why I have liked you so well." "Then you do like me?" Dolores met his gaze without a blush or tremor, frankly, sweetly. "I do not think I ever met any man before, whom I so thoroughly liked and respected," she said. "You are my ideal friend." "Then, perhaps you will consent to correspond with me occasionally," Percy suggested. "I should have gone away not daring to ask the favor, believing myself only one of the many on whom you bestowed your hospitality, but for your kind speech." As he sat in his room that night, Percy puzzled his brains, trying to analyze Dolores King's manner and words, and state of mind toward him. "She is either the most perfect actress, or the coldest and most passionless woman on earth," he said, "incapable of any strong emotion. Or else--or else--she likes me better than she knows. At all events, it is fortunate for both, that I am going away." CHAPTER XI. A FREAK OF FATE. Percy, who had long believed himself to be a perfect cosmopolitan, quite as much at home in one part of the globe as in another, was surprised to find that he was actually homesick after leaving Paris. With an impatience he could hardly understand, he awaited Dolores' response to his first letter. When it came, full of bright humor and sparkling cynicism, pleasant gossip and sincere expressions of regret at his absence, Percy sat and smoked, and dreamed over it for more than an hour. He was trying to analyze his own feelings. When a woman does this, ten to one she is in love. When a man does it, ten to one he is not. Percy did not believe himself to be in love.