"I can't imagine Cora being afraid of any mere man." "Ah," said the Lady; "then the American brothers are different from brothers in my country. I have a brother. I think he is the handsomest and bravest man in the world, and I love him. But I fear him too. I fear him very much." "Your own brother?" The Lady was giving Cartaret some more omelette. Cartaret, holding his ready plate, saw her glance toward the rear of the room and saw her meet the eyes of Chitta, whose face was thrust around the screen. "Yes," said the Lady. It struck Cartaret that she dropped her brother rather quickly. She talked of other things. "Your name," she said, "is English: the concierge gave it me. It is English, is it not?" She had made enquiries about him, then: Cartaret liked that. "My people were English, long ago," he answered. He grew bold. He had been a fool not to make enquiries about her, but now he would make them at first hand. "I don't know your name," he said. He saw her glance again toward the rear of the room, but when he looked he saw nobody. The Lady was saying: "Urola." It helped him very little. He said; "That sounds Spanish." Instantly her head went up. There was blue fire in her eyes as she answered: "I have not one drop of Spanish blood; not one." He had meant no offense, yet it was clear that he came dangerously near one. He made haste to apologize. "You do not understand," she said, smiling a little. "In my country we hate the Spaniard." "What is your country?" It was the most natural of questions--he had put it once before--yet he had now no sooner uttered it than he felt that he had committed another indiscretion. This time, when she glanced at the rear of the room, he distinctly saw Chitta's head disappearing behind the screen. "It is a far country," said Mlle. Urola. "It is a wild country. We have no opportunities to study art in my country. So I came to Paris." After that there was nothing for him to do but to be interested in her studies, and of them she told him willingly enough. She was very ambitious; she worked hard, but she made, she said, little progress. "The people that have no feeling for any art I pity," she said; "but, oh, I pity more those who want to be some sort of artist and cannot be! The desire without the talent, that kills." Chitta was coming back, bearing aloft a fresh dish. She bore it with an air more haughty than any she had yet assumed. Directing at Cartaret a glance of pride and scorn, she set before her mistress--Cartaret's strawberries. The Lady clapped her pretty hands. She laughed with delight. "This," she said, "is a surprise! I had not known that we were to have strawberries. It is so like Chitta. She is so kind and thoughtful, monsieur. Always she has for me some surprise like this." "It is a surprise," said Cartaret. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it." She served the berries while Chitta stalked away.