“Unless Fate set one here—­” I began.

“I suppose that’s it,” she interrupted.

“You are going to make a stay here?”

“I am,” she answered slowly, “on my way to—­I don’t know where.”

I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence.  I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real.

With another upward glance, she said: 

“My name is Marie Delhasse.”

“It is a well-known name,” said I with a bow.

“You have heard of me?”

“Yes.”

“What?” she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.

“That you are a great singer,” I answered simply.

“Ah, I’m not all voice!  What about me?  A woman is more than an organ pipe.  What about me?”

Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.

“Nothing,” said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a question.  She glanced at me for an instant.  I threw my eyes up to the ceiling.

“It is false!” she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her composure.

The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long silence.  The last act of the day’s comedy seemed set for a more serious scene.

“Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?” I said at last, giving utterance to the thought that puzzled me.

“Whom should I ask?  And I like your face—­no, not because it is handsome.  You are English, sir?”

“Yes, I am English.  My name is Gilbert Aycon.”

“Aycon—­Aycon!  It is a little difficult to say it as you say it.”

Her thoughts claimed her again.  I threw my cigarette into the fire, and stood waiting her pleasure.  But she seemed to have no more to say, for she rose from the seat and held out her hand to me.

“Will you ‘shake hands?’” she said, the last two words in English; and she smiled again.

I hastened to do as she asked me, and she moved toward the door.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you to-morrow morning.”

“I shall be here.”  Then I added:  “I could not help hearing you talk of moving elsewhere.”

She stood still in the middle of the room; she opened her lips to speak, shut them again, and ended by saying nothing more than: 

“Yes, we talked of it.  My mother wishes it.  Good-night, Mr. Aycon.”

I bade her good-night, and she passed slowly through the door, which I closed behind her.  I turned again to the fire, saying: 

“What would the duchess think of that?”

I did not even know what I thought of it myself; of one thing only I felt sure—–­that what I had heard of Marie Delhasse was not all that there was to learn about her.