When she had turned away to another group in the salon Livingstone put his head on one side and smiled down at his cigarette. "That's what comes of a little judicious attention bestowed in the right direction," he informed Neale. "I've been getting up at the unearthly hour that girl takes her breakfast for a fortnight now. Quite a charmer, isn't she?--though nothing to her friend Miss Mills. It's Miss Mills I'm interested in. Just wait till you see _that_ joint production of American cash and European civilization! M-m-m! Hair like gold thread, and scads of money in her own right." He added seriously, "Miss Allen hasn't, you know--money, I mean, too bad, isn't it? Her father is only a salaried man--something or other for Paris for the something or other sewing-machine company. Oh, no, I believe it's mowing machines,--or maybe twist drills--anyhow one of those missionaries from our own little home-paradise of cogs and gears. But of course the fair Allaine may make a lot herself if she really does get on the concert stage. Still you never can tell. There's an awful lot of interior wire-pulling to be done, managers and musical critics and so on, before anybody really is allowed to get to the bacon in the concert business, and is she really anywhere near professional skill, who knows? However, a pretty girl always stands enough sight better show than a plain one; or than a man. If she uses those dark eyes of hers to good account I should think 'most any manager or music critic would fall for her. _She_ has a good skin, too; quite pleasant, that clear olive, though of course it's awfully common here in Italy. Just the same, a dark woman never has the _eclat_ of a blonde. Wait till you see Miss Mills." Neale broke in on his flow to remark in a suffocated voice that he had letters to write, and disappeared. * * * * *