"In fact, you are disposed, if occasion offer, to be a trifle intrepid." "I protest!" he exclaimed. "You have nothing to justify any such judgment." "Nothing to justify, possibly--much to suspect." "In what way, mademoiselle?" "In the cast of the eye, monsieur--and the tilt of the head--and in other indefinable ways, appreciated by sight alone." "I suppose, I should be flattered that you have observed me so closely!" he laughed. "I did not know I was so dangerous." "I should call it fascinating," she answered. He bent and kissed her hand, in the most courtly way. "I would it were your lips," he said. "Which only proves my proposition--and, possibly your own. You may be dangerous, as well as fascinating," she replied. "Perchance, here is one who can tell better than I--she knows more of the world and the ways of men. Miss Stirling, is Sir Edward dangerous as well as fascinating, or, simply, fascinating?" and, with a gay laugh, she left them. For a moment, Miss Stirling looked after her with a puzzled air; then, she turned to Sir Edward. "What have you been doing?" she asked. "Nothing," he replied. She smiled. "Nothing? and yet she leaves me such a question?" "Which you can answer?" he asked. "The answer is evident enough. Are you not ashamed, sir, to play your fine manners against the innocent?" "By the innocent, I assume, you mean Miss Marbury?" "Certainly." "Then, let me answer you, that Miss Marbury is as amply able to take care of herself, as--you are," replied Parkington, with a smile. "Which is very little," she answered; "for I admit _I_ am afraid of you. You have beautiful manners, Sir Edward." "But not to be compared to yours," he replied, bowing. "And you say everything as though you meant it." "Which makes for sincerity." "But you do not mean it--or very little of it." "Which allows you to choose what you want, and to discard the rest." "And you dress in especially good taste," she went on. "Which speaks well for my tailor." "And you are, in yourself, exceedingly handsome." "Which speaks well for God." "Or the Devil," she amended. "As you wish!" he said, laughingly, and kissed her hand. "It is always, 'as you wish,' whereas, in truth, it is '_as I_ wish,' when the play is done." "The play?" he asked. "Yes, the play--everything which makes for your pleasure or profit. And you do it so gracefully, with such a flourish of indifference, that the other party actually thinks a favor is conferred in the granting it." "Do you mean to imply that I have done the 'play' in Maryland?" he asked. "Certainly!--you do 'the play' wherever you are--you could not do otherwise. It is as much a part of your nature as----" she paused for a comparison. "As it is of yours," he ended. "If I can do it half so well, I shall be more than pleased," she answered, promptly. "You accept it, then?"