"Anne," he slowly asked, "would it be impertinence for an old fellow to question that look of dream--almost of anxiety--that seems an alien expression on your face?" The preoccupation vanished, and she turned her smile upon him. "Was I looking as dismal as all that?" she demanded. "I guess it was the unaccustomed strain of thinking." "You remind me," he went on thoughtfully, "of a woman I once thought--and I have never changed my mind--the most charming in Europe. Of course that means no more nor less than that I loved her." Anne flushed at the compliment and, quickly searching the gray eyes for a quizzical twinkle, found them entirely grave. "How do I remind you of her, Mr. McCalloway?" The question was put gently. "I've been asking myself that question, and an exact answer eludes me." He paused a moment, then went soberly on: "Your hair is a disputed frontier, where brown and gold contend for dominion, and hers is midnight black. Your eyes are violet and hers are dark, flecked, in certain lights, with amber. Your colour is that of an old-fashioned rose garden--and hers that of a poppy field." "It must be only by contrast, then, that I make you think of her," mused the girl. "We are absolute opposites." "In detail, yes; in essentials, no," protested the man who was old enough to compliment boldly and directly. "You share the quality of goodness, but in itself that's as requisite to character and as externally uninteresting as bones in a body. You share a rarer gift, too. It's not so essential, but it crowns and enthrones its possessor and is life's rarest gift: pure charm. Relative charm we find now and again, but sheer, unalloyed charm is a flower that blooms only under the blue moon of magic." The pinkness of Anne's cheeks grew deeper. "Where is she now, sir?" "For many years she has been where magic is the common law: in Paradise." "Oh, forgive me. You spoke of her--" "In the present tense," interrupted the soldier. "Yes, I always do. It is so that I think of her." He broke off, then went on in a changed voice, "But the gravity in eyes that laugh by divine right calls for explanation." For an instant a tiny line of trouble showed between her brows, and the seriousness returned. "I think perhaps, Mr. McCalloway, you are the one person I can tell." She paused as though trying to marshal the sequences of a difficult subject, then spoke impulsively: "Boone doesn't realize it," she said slowly. "I don't want him to know, because there's nothing he can do about it--yet. Since I made my debut--and that was almost three years ago--I've been under a pressure that's never relaxed. It hasn't been the sort of coercion one can openly fight, but the harder, more insidious thing. It's in mother's eyes--in everything--the unspoken accusation that I'm an ingrate: that I'm selfishly thinking only of myself and not at all of my family." "You mean in not marrying Morgan?"