The Boy was a favorite everywhere, even more so, perhaps, than in London.  American society saw no mystery about him, and would not have cared if it had.  If his face seemed somewhat familiar, as it often had to Opal Ledoux, no one puzzled his brains over it or searched the magazines to place it.  New York accepted him, as it accepts all distinguished foreigners who have no craving for the limelight of publicity, for his face value, and enjoyed him thoroughly.  Women petted him, because he was so witty and chivalrous and entertaining, and always as exquisitely well-groomed as any belle among them; men were attracted to him because he had ideas and knew how to express them.  He was worth talking to and worth listening to.  He had formed opinions of his own upon most subjects.  He had thought for himself and had the courage of his convictions, and Americans like that.

Naturally enough, before many days, at a fashionable ball at the Plaza he came into contact with Opal Ledoux again.

It was a new experience, this, to see the girl he loved surrounded by the admiration and attention of other men.  In his own infatuation he had not realized that most men would be affected by her as he was, would experience the same maddening impulses—­the same longing—­the same thirst for possession of her.  Now the fact came home to him with the force of an electric shock.  He could not endure the burning glances of admiration that he saw constantly directed toward her.  What right had other men to devour her with their eyes?

He hastened to meet her.  She greeted him politely but coldly, expressing some perfunctory regret when he asked for a dance, and showing him that her card was already filled.  And then her partner claimed her, and she went away on his arm, smiling up into his face in a way she had that drove men wild for her.  “The wicked little witch!” Paul thought.  “Would she make eyes at every man like that?  Dare she?”

A moment after, he heard her name, and instantly was all attention.  The two men just behind him were discussing her rather freely—­far too freely for the time and the place—­and the girl, in Paul’s estimation.  He listened eagerly.

“Bold little devil, that Ledoux girl!” said one.  “God! how she is playing her little game to-night!  They say she is going to marry that old French Count, de Roannes!  That’s the fellow over there, watching her with the cat’s eyes.  I guess he thinks she means to have her fling first—­and I guess she thinks so too!  As usual, it’s the spectator who sees the best of the game.  What a curious girl she is—­a living paradox!”

“How’s that?”

“Spanish, you know.  Ought to have black hair instead of red—­black eyes instead of—­well, chestnut about expresses the color of hers.  I call them witch’s eyes, they’re so full of fire and—­the devil!”

“She’s French, too, isn’t she?  That accounts for the eyes.  The beaute du diable, hers is!  Couldn’t she make a heaven for a man if she would—­or a hell?”