The girl smiled, a trifle wearily. “One does not come four thousand miles for a trifle,” she answered. “The convenances must yield to necessity. I must talk with you to-night.” Caruth bowed and seated himself across the centre table from her. Though his surprise had not abated, he was rapidly regaining his self-possession, and as the girl resumed her own chair, he leaned forward a little, studying her thoughtfully, noting the anxious lines about her youthful eyes and mouth. Although her English had been excellent, she did not impress him as being of American nor yet of English birth. An alien air clung intangibly about her and about her costume, which, even to his masculine intelligence, bespoke the work of a dress-maker of more than ordinary skill. She was plainly a lady. Had it not been too amazing, he would have guessed that she must be a person of distinction in her own land--wherever that might be. That she was beautiful seemed somehow not surprising; that she was very young did. What could such a woman be doing alone in his bachelor rooms at that hour of the night. Disguising his wonder, he sought to carry off the situation. “You are tired?” he questioned gently. “I’m afraid I kept you waiting a long time. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Can’t I offer you something to eat or drink, Miss Fitzhugh?” Slowly the girl nodded. “I’m glad,” she breathed, half to herself. “They told me American men were like this, but I could scarcely believe it. In Europe it would have been very different. I am proud of my half-cousins.” She paused; then answered his question. “Thank you,” she said. “I will take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.” Caruth touched the bell. “Sherry and crackers, Wilkins,” he ordered briefly. Not until the tray had been set before them, and the valet had gone, did either of them speak again. Caruth was slowly awakening to the fact that the beauty of the woman before him was not ordinary. It was not alone the perfection of her features that appealed to him. Every detail about her was artistically perfect. Her coloring, the poise of her head, the slim roundness of her taper fingers, the iridescent gleam of her brown hair beneath her wide hat--all satisfied his somewhat critical taste. Suddenly he realized that he was staring, and, dropping his eyes, he forced himself to speak casually. “Your half-cousins?” he queried, answering her lead. “You are, then----” “American? Yes! On my mother’s side, but my father is Russian, and I have never been in America until to-night. I like it, Mr. Caruth,” she ended--“what I have seen of it. It rests with you to confirm my opinion.” Caruth questioned her with his eyes. “Yes?” he answered politely. “I hope I shall be able to do so.” For a moment the girl did not speak. Her bosom rose and fell a trifle faster. She crumbled her cracker nervously, and her hand shook slightly as she lifted her glass. Caruth, silent, attentive, awaited her pleasure.