"No, I am not that," and she flashed a quick glance at him, "only I think I comprehend you, and to comprehend is to forgive, is it not? I--I cannot listen to the--affection you speak of. Love and marriage are not for me. Did not the Egyptian say it? Yes; that was quite true. But I can shake hands in good-bye, Monsieur Incognito. Your English people always do that, eh? Well, so will I." She held out her hand; he took it in both his own and his lips touched it. "No! no!" she said softly, and shook her head; "that is not an English custom." He lifted his head and looked at her. "Why do you call me English?" he asked, and she smiled, glad to break that tenseness of feeling by some commonplace. "It was very simple, Monsieur; first it was the make of your hat, I read the name of the maker in the crown that day in the park; then you spoke English; you said you had just arrived from England; and the English are so certain to get lost unless they go in groups--therefore!" She had enumerated all those reasons on her white fingers. She glanced at him, with an adorable smile as a finale, so confident she had proven her case. "And you French have no fondness for the English people," he said slowly, looking at her. "I wear an American uniform tonight; suppose I am an American? I am tempted to disobey and tell you who I am, in hopes you will not send me into exile quite so soon." "No, no, _no_!" she breathed hurriedly. "You must go; and you must remain Monsieur Incognito; thus it will be only a comedy, a morsel of romance. But if I knew you well--ah! I do not know what it would be then. I am afraid to think. Yes, I confess it, Monsieur, you make me afraid. I tell myself you are a foreign ogre, yet when you speak to me--ah!" She put out her hands as he came close. But he knelt at her feet, kissing her hands, her wrists, the folds of her dress, then lifted his face glowing, ardent, to her own. "I shall make you love me some day," he whispered; "not now, perhaps, but some day." She stared at him without a word. She had received proposals of marriage, dignified, ceremonious affairs submitted to her by the dowager, but from this stranger came the first avowal of love she had ever listened to. A stranger; yet he held her hand; she felt herself drawn towards him by a force she could not combat. Her other arm was over the back of a chair, slowly she lifted it, then he felt her hand touch his hair and the touch was a caress. "My queen!" "Co--now," she said so lowly. It was almost a whisper. He arose, pressed her hand to his lips and turned away, when a woman's voice spoke among the palms: "Did you say in this corner, Madame? I have not found him; Kenneth!" "It is my mother," he said softly, and was about to draw back the alcove draperies when the Marquise took a step towards him, staring strangely into his face.