By dint of vigil and meditation he drew the conclusion that his inner hesitancy sprang from the fact that he was not being honest with himself.  He was shirking knowledge that he ought to face.  Up to the present he had done his duty in that respect, and done it pluckily.  He had not balked at the statement that his rA’le in the world was that of an impostor—­though an impostor of the world’s own creation.  It had been part of the task forced upon him “to deceive men under their very noses,” as he had expressed it to himself that night on Lake Champlain.  Whatever vengeance, therefore, discovery might call upon him, he could suffer nothing in the loss of self-respect.  He would be always supported by his inner approval.  Remorse would be as alien to him as to Prometheus on the rock.

In the present situation he was less sure of that, and there he put his finger on his weakness.  Seeing shadows flitting in the background he dodged them, instead of calling them out into daylight.  He was counting on happy chances in dealing with the unforeseen, when all his moves should be based on the precise information of a general.

Therefore, when, in the corner of the patio, the next opportunity arose for asking the question, “Who is Miriam?” he brought it out boldly.

“She’s a darling.”  The unexpected reply was accompanied by a sudden lifting of the lashes for a rapturous look and one of the flashing smiles.

“That’s high praise—­from you.”

“She deserves it—­from any one!”

“Why?  What for?  What has she done to win your enthusiasm when other people find it so hard?”

“It isn’t so hard—­only some people go the wrong way to work about it, do you see?”

She leaned back in her wicker chair, fanning herself slowly, and smiling at him with that air of mingled innocence and provocation which he found the most captivating of her charms.

“Do I?” he was tempted to ask.

“Do you?  Now, let me think.  Really, I never noticed.  You’d have to begin all over again—­if you ever did begin—­before I could venture an opinion.”

This was pretty, but it was not keeping to the point.

“Evidently Miriam knows how to do it, and when I see her I shall ask her.”

“I wish you could see her.  You’d adore her.  She’d be just your style.”

“What makes you think that?  Is she so beautiful?  What is she like?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you what she’s like.  You’d have to see her for yourself.  No, I don’t think I should call her beautiful, though some people do.  She’s awfully attractive anyhow.”

“Attractive?  In what way?”

“Oh, in a lot of ways.  She isn’t like anybody else.  She’s in a class by herself.  In fact, she has to be, poor thing.”

“Why should she be poor thing, with so much to her credit in the way of assets?”

“Do you see?—­that’s something I can’t tell you.  There’s a sort of mystery about her.  I’m not sure that I understand it very well myself.  I only know that dear mamma didn’t feel that she could take her out, in New York, except among our very most intimate friends, where it didn’t matter.  And yet when Lady Bonchurch took her to Washington she got a lot of offers—­I know that for a fact—­and in England, too.”