Her severity, her irony and her apparent lack of warmth were mere matters of calculation. Her plan was to inspire him with trepidation, to keep him always at arm's length, for his own safety as well as hers. She knew something of men. Even the best, if suddenly thrown into an affair so strange as this, might commit an irreparable blunder; and this she did not want Hillard to do. She was secretly pleased with his strong face and shapely head. There was neither beard nor mustache to hide the virtues or defects. The chin was square but not heavy, the mouth humorous, kindly and firm, the nose bridged; and the brown eyes, sleepy yet with latent fires, were really handsome. She knew all about him; she was not afraid to be alone with him; nor was it really necessary to wear a mask. But the romance in her heart, that she believed to be dead, was not dead, only waiting to be rekindled. True, they were never to meet again; it was all to begin to-night and end to-night. No man was likely to forget a face met under such whimsical and extraordinary circumstances; so he must not have hers to remember. She arose. "I will sing!" "That is more than I dared to hope." He made as though to rise. "Sit down. I do not play by note; my memory is very good. While I am singing I should much prefer you to remain where you are." He obeyed without protest, and she went to the piano. Above the instrument was a rare old Venetian mirror; in it he could see her face fairly well. And where had he seen that mirror before? "What shall it be?" she asked, and he forgot the mirror. "The song you sang under my window." "But that is for the male voice!" "You sang it very well, nevertheless. I have a good memory, too." He leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees. Was there ever, in all the world, such an Arabian night? She sang, but without that buoyant note of the first night. One after another he called out the popular airs of the old light operas. She had them all on her tongue's end. "Light opera appeals to you?" She had followed in the mirror his slightest move. Was she disappointed? Where had he seen that copy of Botticelli before? If only there was a little more light. "Pardon me," he said. "You asked--?" She repeated her question, wondering what had drawn his attention. "I like my grand opera after dinner. After dinner I shall want Verdi, Berlioz, Gounod." "But after dinner I may not care to sing." She spoke in German. He was not expecting this tongue; besides, his German had never been a finished product. For all that, he made a passable reply. "You speak as many languages as a Swiss hotel-concierge."