Cartaret ground his teeth. He spoke thereafter in French, but he lowered his voice so as to be sure that Chitta could not understand him. "I was thinking then that you ought to see it." He took his courage in both hands. "I was wishing very much that you were with me." His brown eyes sought hers steadily. "May I tell you all that I was wishing?" "Not now," she said. Her tone was conventional enough, but in her face he read--and he was sure that she had meant him to read--a something deeper. He put it to her flatly: "When?" She was looking now at the fresh green leaves above them. When she looked down, she was still smiling, but her smile was wistful. "When dreams come true, perhaps," she said. "Do dreams ever come true in the American United States, monsieur?" The spell of the Spring was dangerously upon them both. Cartaret's breath came quickly. "I wish--I wish that you were franker with me," he said. "But am I ever anything except frank?" "You're--I know I haven't any right to expect your confidence: you scarcely know me. But why won't you tell me even where you come from and who you are?" "You know my name." "I know a part of it." "My little name is--it is Vitoria." "V-i-t-t-o-r-i-a?" he spelled. "Yes, but with one 't,'" the Lady said. "Vitoria Urola," he repeated. She raised her even brows. "Oh, yes; of course," said she. Somehow it struck him that its sound was scarcely familiar to her: "Do I pronounce it badly?" "No, no: you are quite correct." "But not quite to be trusted?" She looked at him doubtfully. She looked at Chitta and gave her a quick order that sent the duenna reluctantly ahead of them. Then the Lady put her gloved hand on Cartaret's arm. "I want you to be my friend," she said. "I am your friend," he protested: "that is what I want you to believe. That is why I ask you to be frank with me. I want you to tell me just enough to let me help--to let me protect you. If you are in danger, I want----" "You might be my danger." "I?" She bowed assent. "No, do not ask me why. I shall not tell you. I shall never tell you--no more," she smiled, "than I shall ever say for you 'it's me.' It is very kind of you to want to be my friend. I am alone here in Paris, except for poor Chitta, and I shall be glad if you will be my friend; but it will not be very easy." "It would be hard to be anything else." "Not for you: you are too curious. My friend must let me be just what I am here. All that I was before I came to Paris, all that I may be after I leave it, he must ask nothing about." Cartaret looked long into her eyes. "All right," he said at last. "I am glad to have that much. And--thank you."