Barrison was no fool where women were concerned; he knew that she was purposely making herself attractive to him, and he knew that she was sufficiently fascinating to be dangerous. Her unexpectedness alone would make her interesting to a man of his type. But he could usually keep his head; he proposed to keep it now. So far as playing the game went, he was not altogether a bad hand at it himself, and Miss Templeton, he imagined, was not precisely a young or unsophisticated village maid. That there was danger merely made it the more exhilarating. “Mr. Barrison,” she said at last, “of course you are asking yourself what it is that I have to tell you—why, in short, I asked you to lunch to-day.” “I am asking myself nothing at the present moment,” he returned promptly, “except why, by the favor of the gods, I should be playing in such extraordinary luck! But, of course, I’ll be interested in anything you have to tell me.” “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think you probably will be interested. You’ll forgive me if I begin with a little—a very little—personal history? It won’t be the ‘story of my life,’ don’t be frightened! But it’s essential to what I want to tell you afterward.” “Please tell me anything and everything you care to,” he begged her, with the air of grave attention which a woman always delights to see in a man to whom she is speaking. She sat, her chin resting on her clasped hands; her eyes abstracted, fixed on nothing tangible that he could see, as she spoke: “You understand me a little better now, seeing me at home—in as much of a home as I can have—among the books and pictures that I love, don’t you? Never mind; perhaps you don’t. Though I don’t think I’m very hard to understand. I’m just a woman who’s always been hunting for something that——” “The Blue Bird of Happiness?” he suggested gently. “You’ve read it, of course?” “Naturally—and loved it. But—I don’t imagine that _I_ could ever find my Blue Bird at home, as they did. It would have to be in some very far place, I’m sure, only to be won after tremendous effort!” “After all, that Blue Bird they found at home flew away as soon as it was found!” he reminded her. “I can see that you hear the call of adventure more clearly than most people. Have you always dreamed of the ‘strange roads?’ Or has it been a part of—growing up?” “You were going to say ‘growing older!’” she said, with a faint smile. “I think I’ve always been so. I seem always to have been struggling away from where I was—rotten, discontented nature, isn’t it? Will you hand me those cigarettes, please?”