“Indeed?  Your proof?”

He drew the white satin fan forth from his pocket, and held it out toward her with mock humility.  “This, unbelieving princess.  Despatched by the fair lady in question to fetch this bauble from the dressing-room, I forgot my urgent errand in the sudden delight of finding you.”

“The case seems fully proved,” she confessed, laughingly, “and it is surely not my duty to punish the culprit.  What did you talk about?  But, pshaw, I know well enough without asking—­she told you how greatly she admired the romance of the West, and begged you to call upon her with a recital of your own exploits.  Have I not guessed aright?”

“Partially, at least; some such expressions were used.”

“Of course, they always are.  I do not know whether they form merely a part of her stock in trade, or are spoken earnestly.  You would laugh to hear the tales of wild and thrilling adventure which she picks up, and actually believes.  That Jack Moffat possesses the most marvellous imagination for such things, and if I make fun of his impossible stories she becomes angry in an instant.”

“I am afraid you do not greatly admire this Miss Spencer?”

“Oh, but I do; truly I do.  You must not think me ungrateful.  No one has ever helped me more, and beneath this mask of artificiality she is really a noble-hearted woman.  I do not understand the necessity for people to lead false lives.  Is it this way in all society—­Eastern society, I mean?  Do men and women there continually scheme and flirt, smile and stab, forever assuming parts like so many play-actors?”

“It is far too common,” he admitted, touched by her naive questioning.  “What is known as fashionable social life has become an almost pitiful sham, and you can scarcely conceive the relief it is to meet with one utterly uncontaminated by its miserable deceits, its shallow make-believes.  It is no wonder you shock the nerves of such people; the deed is easily accomplished.”

“But I do not mean to.”  And she looked at him gravely, striving to make him comprehend.  “I try so hard to be—­be commonplace, and—­and satisfied.  Only there is so much that seems silly, useless, pitifully contemptible that I lose all patience.  Perhaps I need proper training in what Miss Spencer calls refinement; but why should I pretend to like what I don’t like, and to believe what I don’t believe?  Cannot one act a lie as well as speak one?  And is it no longer right to search after the truth?”

“I have always felt it was our duty to discover the truth wherever possible,” he said, thoughtfully; “yet, I confess, the search is not fashionable, nor the earnest seeker popular.”

A little trill of laughter flowed from between her parted lips, but the sound was not altogether merry.