She stole a glance at her handsome companion, and, seeing that he was observing her, quickly lowered her eyes. The Captain had a flattering way of studying her poses, remarking on the lines of her gowns and her hats. He was constantly discovering interesting things about her that she had not known before. But sometimes, as now, she was restive under his too close scrutiny. "So you are actually going to leave me next week?" he asked, with a note of personal aggrievement. "To leave you? I like that! If it weren't for you I shouldn't be going." "Are they really sending you away on my account?" "Indeed they are. Grandmother says you are encouraging me about the stage, and that poor Papa Claude is demoralizing us both." "Isn't that absurd?" said the Captain. "Dear old C. M. is about as innocuous as a peacock. Madam Bartlett should have been born in the seventeenth century. What will she say when she sees your name blazing over a Broadway theater?" "In one of your plays! Oh, Captain, wouldn't that be glorious?" "Haven't I asked you to drop the 'Captain'? My name is Harold. Say it!" "No; I can't." "Yes, you can. Come!" But she defied him with tightly closed lips and dancing eyes. With feminine instinct she had discovered that the irresistible Captain was piqued and stimulated by the unusual taste of opposition. "You little minx!" he said, lifting an accusing finger. "Those eyes of yours are going to do a lot of damage before they get through with it." Eleanor took kindly to the thought that she was dangerous. If she could cause disturbance to an individual by the guarded flutter of her eyelids, what effect might she not produce by giving them full play before a larger audience? "Do you really think I could act if I got the chance?" she asked dreamily. "I am absolutely sure. Your grandfather's quite right when he says you were born to the footlights. With your voice and your unusual coloring and your plastic little body----" "But you can't imagine the opposition," Eleanor broke in. "It isn't as if my mother and father were living. I believe they would understand. But grandfather and the aunties, and even Uncle Ranny, throw a fit at the mere mention of the stage." "You do not belong to them," said the Captain impatiently. "You do not even belong to yourself. A great talent belongs to the world. All these questions will settle themselves, once you take the definite step." "And you actually believe that I will get to New York to study?" "I don't believe--I _know_. I intend to make it my business to see that you do." There was a confident ring of masterful assurance in his voice that carried delicious conviction. A person who was so absolutely sure of himself made other people sure of him, too, for the moment.