“There are such people,” said Essex in the same tone. “Does she dislike the idea of going to Paris, too?” “That seems to be it. We both wanted to send her there, have her voice trained, and put her in the way of becoming a singer. Lepine, when he was here, heard her and thought she had the making of a prima donna. But,” she suddenly looked at him with a half-puzzled expression of inquiry, “I think you know her--Miss Moreau?” Essex looked back at her for a moment with bafflingly expressionless eyes. “Yes, I know her. She’s a friend of Mrs. Willers’, one of the Sunday edition people on _The Trumpet_. A very handsome and charming girl.” “That’s the girl,” said Bessie, mentally admiring his perfect aplomb. “She’s a very fine girl, and, as you say, handsome. But I don’t think she’s got much common sense. Girls don’t, as a rule, have more than enough to get along on. But when they’re poor, and so alone in the world, they ought to pick up a little. “Certainly, to refuse an offer such as you speak of, argues a lack of something. Have you any idea of her reason for refusing?” He looked at Bessie as he propounded the question, his eyelids lowered slightly. She, in her turn, let her keen gray glance rest on him. The thought flashed through her mind that it was only another evidence of Mariposa’s peculiarity of disposition that she should have refused so handsome and attractive a man. “No--” she said with unruffled placidity, “I don’t understand it. She’s a proud girl and objects to being under obligations. But then this wouldn’t be an obligation. Apart from everything else, there’s no question about obligations where singers and artists and people like that are concerned. It’s all a matter of art.” “Art levels all things,” said the young man glibly. “That’s what I always thought. But Miss Moreau doesn’t seem to agree with me. The most curious part of it all is that she was willing to go in the beginning. That was before her mother died; then she suddenly changed her mind, wouldn’t hear of it, and said she’d prefer staying here in San Francisco, teaching music at fifty cents a lesson. I must say I was annoyed. I had her here and talked to her quite severely, but it didn’t seem to make any impression. I was puzzled to death to understand it. But after thinking for a while, and wondering what could make a girl prefer San Francisco and teaching music at fifty cents a lesson, to Paris and being a prima donna, I came to the conclusion there was only one thing could influence a woman to that extent--there was a man in the case.” She saw Essex, whose eyes were on the fire, raise his brows by way of a polite commentary on her words. “That sounds a very plausible solution of the problem,” he said. “Love’s a deadly enemy to common sense.”