Her cheeks colored painfully, and all the laughter was gone from her voice as she replied, “I didn’t want you to know that part.”

“But I must know,” he insisted gravely.

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Rutlidge found me there; and I ran away through the garden.  I don’t like him.  He frightens me.  Please, is it necessary for us to talk about it any more?  I had to make my confession of course, but must we talk about that part?”

“No,” he answered, “we need not talk about it.  It was necessary for me to know; but we will never mention that part, again.  When we are back in the orange groves, you shall come to the rose garden and to the studio, as often as you like; your good genie and I will see to it that you are not disturbed—­by any one.”

Her face brightened at his words.  “And do you really like for me to make music for you—­as Mr. Lagrange says you do?”

“I can’t begin to tell you how much I like it,” he answered smiling.

“And it doesn’t bother you in your work?”

“It helps me,” he declared—­thinking of that portrait of Mrs. Taine.

“Oh, I am glad, glad!” she cried.  “I wanted it to help.  It was for that I played.”

“You played to help me?” he asked wonderingly.

She nodded.  “I thought it might—­if I could get enough of the mountains into my music, you know.”

“And will you dance for me, sometimes too?” he asked.

She shook her head.  “I cannot tell about that.  You see, I only dance when I must—­when the music, somehow, doesn’t seem quite enough.  When I—­when I”—­she searched for a word, then finished abruptly—­“oh, I can’t tell you about it—­it’s just something you feel—­there are no words for it.  When I first come to the mountains,—­after living in Fairlands all winter,—­I always dance—­the mountains feel so big and strong.  And sometimes I dance in the moonlight—­when it feels so soft and light and clean; or in the twilight—­when it’s so still, and the air is so—­so full of the day that has come home to rest and sleep; and sometimes when I am away up under the big pines and the wind, from off the mountain tops, under the sky, sings through the dark branches.”

“But don’t you ever dance to please your friends?”

“Oh, no—­I don’t dance to please any one—­only just when it’s for myself—­when nothing else will do—­when I must.  Of course, sometimes, Myra or Brian Oakley or Mrs. Oakley are with me—­but they don’t matter, you know.  They are so much a part of me that I don’t mind.”

“I wonder if you will ever dance for me?”

Again, she shook her head.  “I don’t think so.  How could I?  You see, you are not like anybody that I have ever known.”

“But I saw you the other evening, you remember.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you were there.  If I had known, I wouldn’t have danced.”

All the while—­as she talked—­her fingers had been busy with the slender, willow branches.  “And now”—­she said, abruptly changing the subject, and smiling as she spoke—­“and now, you must turn back to your work.”