Glenn Mitchell had been handsome, and romantic, and twenty.  Young Mrs. Champneys, then, didn’t respond to Mr. Berkeley Hayden’s notice gratefully, pleasedly, flutteringly, as other young women—­and many older ones—­did.  This one paid a more flattering attention to Mr. Jason Vandervelde than to him.  But he had seen other women play that game; he wondered for a moment if this one were designing.  But he was himself too clever not to understand that this was real indifference.  Then he wondered if she might be—­horrible thought!—­stupid.  He was forced to dismiss that suspicion, too.  She wasn’t stupid.  The truth didn’t occur to him—­that he himself was spoiled.  It provoked him, too, that he couldn’t make her talk.

Mrs. Vandervelde smiled to herself again.  Berkeley was deliberately trying to make himself agreeable, something he did not often have to trouble himself to do.  He was at his best only when he was really interested or amused, and he was at his best to-night.  He aroused her admiration, drew the fire of her own wit and raillery, stung even quiet Jason into unwonted animation.  Anne Champneys looked from one to the other, concealing the fact that at times their conversation was over her head.  She didn’t always understand them.  The sense of their unreality in relation to herself came upon her.  She turned to watch this strange man who was saying things that puzzled her, and he met her eyes, as Glenn Mitchell had once met them.  She wasn’t looking at him as she had looked at Glenn, but Berkeley Hayden’s sophisticated, well-trained, wary heart gave an unprecedented, unmannerly jump when those green eyes sought to fathom him.

Marcia spoke of their proposed stay abroad.  She had gone to school in Florence, and she retained a passionate affection for the old city, and showed her delight at the prospect of revisiting it.

“This will be your first visit to Italy, Mrs. Champneys?” asked Hayden.

“Yes.”

“I envy you.  But you mustn’t allow yourself to be weaned away from your own country.  You must come back to New York.”  He smiled into her eyes—­Berkeley Hayden’s famous smile.

“Yes, I suppose I must,” said Nancy, without enthusiasm.

He felt puzzled.  Was she unthinkably simple and natural, or was she immeasurably deep?  Was her apparent utter unconsciousness of the effect she produced a superfine art?  He couldn’t decide.

He usually knew exactly why any certain woman pleased him.  He had usually demanded beauty; he had worshiped beauty all his life.  But beauty must go hand in hand with intellectual qualities; he hated a fool.  To-night he found himself puzzled.  He couldn’t tell exactly why Anne Champneys pleased him.  Studying her critically, he decided that she was not beautiful.  He could not even call her pretty.  Perhaps it was her unusualness.  But wherein was she so unusual?  He had met women with red hair and white skin and gray-green eyes before—­women far, far more seductive than Jason’s ward.  Yet not one of them all had so potently gripped his imagination.