‘So you think I am not changed!’ she said, with a little pleased surprise in her tone.

’Not a bit.  If anything, you have grown younger in the last two years.’

‘Does that mean more youthful?  More frisky?  I hope not!’

’No, not at all.  What I see is the natural effect of vast success on a very, nice woman.  Formerly, even after you had begun your career, you had some doubts as to the ultimate result.  The future made you restless, and sometimes disturbed the peace of your face a little, when you thought about it too much.  That’s all gone now, and you are your real self, as nature meant you to be.’

‘My real self?  You mean, the professional singer!’

‘No.  A great artist, in the person of a thoroughly nice woman.’

Margaret had thought that blushing was a thing of the past with her, but a soft colour rose in her cheeks now, from sheer pleasure at what he had said.

‘I hope you don’t think it impertinent of me to tell you so,’ said Logotheti with a slight intonation of anxiety.

‘Impertinent!’ cried Margaret.  ’It’s the nicest thing any one has said to me for months, and thank goodness I’m not above being pleased.’

Nor was Logotheti above using any art that could please her.  His instinct about women, finding no scruples in the way, had led him into present favour by the shortest road.  It is one thing to say brutally that all women like flattery; it is quite another to foresee just what form of flattery they will like.  People who do not know professional artistic life from the inner side are much too ready to cry out that first-class professionals will swallow any amount of undiscriminating praise.  The ability to judge their own work is one of the gifts which place them above the second class.

‘I said what I thought,’ observed Logotheti with a sudden air of conscientious reserve.  ’For once in our acquaintance, I was not thinking of pleasing you.  And then I was afraid that I had displeased you, as I so often have.’

The last words were spoken with a regret that was real.

‘I have forgiven you,’ said Margaret quietly; ‘with conditions!’ she added, as an afterthought, and smiling.

‘Oh, I know—­I’ll never do it again.’

’That’s what a runaway horse seems to say when he walks quietly home, with his head down and his ears limp, after nearly breaking one’s neck!’

‘I was a born runaway,’ said Logotheti meekly, ’but you have cured me.’

In the pause that followed this speech, Mr. Feist leaned forward and spoke to Margaret across the table.

‘I think we have a mutual friend, Madame,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’ Margaret spoke coolly; she did not like to be called ‘Madame’ by people who spoke English.

‘Mr. Van Torp,’ explained the young man.

‘Yes,’ Margaret said, after a moment’s hesitation, ’I know Mr. Van Torp; he came over on the same steamer.’