If abrupt, the introduction was at least conventional, and Marie, who had not the remotest suspicion that it was all bought and paid for and who, if consciously startled, subconsciously was pleased, attributing the whole thing to accident and, flushing still, smiled and sat down. "I think," said Loftus, "that I have had the pleasure of seeing you before." At this inanity Marie looked first at him, then at the carpet. She did not know at all what he was saying. But in his voice was a deference, in his manner a sorcery and in his bearing and appearance something that went to her head. It was all very novel and delightful, and she flushed again. "Yes," Loftus resumed, "and when I did see you I committed a very grave offense. Can you forgive me?" For countenance sake the girl turned to Mme. Machin. But the ex-first lady, pretexting a pretext, had gone. "Can you?" Loftus requested. "Can you forgive?" Forgive indeed! Had she not so forgiven that she had almost wished a renewal of that grave offense? She did not answer. It was her face that spoke for her. But the silence Loftus affected to misconstrue. "Couldn't you try?" "Yes." The monosyllable fell from her softly, almost inaudibly. Yet for his purpose it sufficed. "Thank you. I hoped that you would. But will you let me tell you now how I came to behave as I did?" To this, timorously, with the slightest movement of her pretty head, the girl assented. "Because I could not help myself. Because at the first sight of you I knew that I loved you. Because I felt that I could never love anyone else." Marie started. She was crimson. Starting, she half got from her seat. Loftus caught at her hand. She disengaged it. But he caught at it again. "I love you," he continued, burning her with his words, with the contact of his fingers, that had intertwisted with hers. "Look at me, I love your eyes. Speak to me, I love your voice." But the door opened. Preceded by a precautionary roulade, the ex-first lady reappeared. "Allons!" she remarked to the ceiling. "Et maintenant, mademoiselle, au travail." Loftus stood up, took Marie's hand again, held it a second, nodded at the woman. In a moment he had gone. "Au revoir," the ex-first lady called after him. She turned to the girl. "A gallant monsieur. And good to look at." Then seating herself at the piano she attacked the brindisi from "Lucrezia." "Ah! the segreto!" she interrupted herself to exclaim, "il segreto per esser felice--the secret of happiness! Mais! There is but one! C'est l'amour! And with a gallant monsieur like that! And rich! C'est le rêve! N'est ce pas, mon enfant?" "Je vous en prie, madame," said Marie severely, or rather as severely as she could, for she was trembling with emotion, saturated with the love that had been thrown at her head, drenched with it, frightened too at the apperception of the secret which the aria that her teacher was strumming revealed. CHAPTER IV ENCHANTMENT