Dan stood straightly before the two women of an old race, and the American didn’t suggest any line of noble ancestors whatsoever. His features were rather agglomerate; his muscles were possibly not the perfect elastic specimens that were those muscles whose strain and sinew had been made from the same stock for generations. He was, nevertheless, very good to look on. Any woman would have thought so, and he bent his blond head as he looked at the Duchess of Breakwater with something like benevolence, something of his father’s kindness in his clear blue eyes. Neither of the noble ladies vaguely understood him. His hostess thought him “a good sort,” not half bad, a splendid catch, and the other woman, only a few years his senior, was in love with him. The duchess had married at eighteen, tired of her bargain at twenty, and found herself a widow at twenty-five. She held a telegram in her hand. “We’ve got the box for _Mandalay_ to-night at the Gaiety, and let’s motor in.” Only Lady Galorey hesitated, disappointed. “Too bad—I had specially arranged for Lady Grandcourt to drive over with Eileen. I thought it would be a ripping chance for her to see Dan.” When at length the duchess had succeeded in getting Dan to herself toward the end of the day in the red room, after tea, she said: “So you won’t marry a London beauty?” And rather coldly Dan had answered: “Why, you talk, all of you, as if I had only to ask any girl of them, and she would jump down my throat.” “Don’t try it,” the duchess answered, “unless you want to have your mouth full!” Dan did not reply for a second, but he looked at her more seriously, conscious of her grace and her good looks. She was certainly better to look at than the simple girls with their big hands, small wits, long faces, and, as the boy expressed it, “utter lack of get-up.” The duchess shone out to advantage. “Why don’t you talk to me?” she asked softly. “You know you would rather talk to me than the others.” “Yes,” he said frankly; “they make me nervous.” “And I don’t?” “No,” he said. “I learn a lot every time we are together.” “Learn?” she repeated, not particularly flattered by this. “What sort of things?” “Oh, about the whole business,” he returned vaguely. “You know what I mean.” “Then,” she said with a slight laugh, “you mean to say you talk with me for _educational purposes_? What a beastly bore!” Dan did not contradict her. She was by no means Eve to him, nor was he the raw recruit his simplicity might give one to think. He had had his temptations and his way out of them was an easy one; for he was very slow to stir, and back of all was his ideal. The reality and power of this ideal Dan knew best at moments like these. But the Duchess of Breakwater was the most lovely woman—the most dangerous woman that had come his way. He liked her—Dan was well on the way to love.