“You are not afraid of me, then?” asked the young man again, with his light laugh.

She wondered a moment, and then, “We are not afraid—­here,” she said.

“Ah, comme vous devez avoir raison!” cried the young man, looking all round him, appreciatively.  It was the first time that Gertrude had heard so many words of French spoken.  They gave her something of a sensation.  Her companion followed her, watching, with a certain excitement of his own, this tall, interesting-looking girl, dressed in her clear, crisp muslin.  He paused in the hall, where there was a broad white staircase with a white balustrade.  “What a pleasant house!” he said.  “It ’s lighter inside than it is out.”

“It ’s pleasanter here,” said Gertrude, and she led the way into the parlor,—­a high, clean, rather empty-looking room.  Here they stood looking at each other,—­the young man smiling more than ever; Gertrude, very serious, trying to smile.

“I don’t believe you know my name,” he said.  “I am called Felix Young.  Your father is my uncle.  My mother was his half sister, and older than he.”

“Yes,” said Gertrude, “and she turned Roman Catholic and married in Europe.”

“I see you know,” said the young man.  “She married and she died.  Your father’s family did n’t like her husband.  They called him a foreigner; but he was not.  My poor father was born in Sicily, but his parents were American.”

“In Sicily?” Gertrude murmured.

“It is true,” said Felix Young, “that they had spent their lives in Europe.  But they were very patriotic.  And so are we.”

“And you are Sicilian,” said Gertrude.

“Sicilian, no!  Let ’s see.  I was born at a little place—­a dear little place—­in France.  My sister was born at Vienna.”

“So you are French,” said Gertrude.

“Heaven forbid!” cried the young man.  Gertrude’s eyes were fixed upon him almost insistently.  He began to laugh again.  “I can easily be French, if that will please you.”

“You are a foreigner of some sort,” said Gertrude.

“Of some sort—­yes; I suppose so.  But who can say of what sort?  I don’t think we have ever had occasion to settle the question.  You know there are people like that.  About their country, their religion, their profession, they can’t tell.”

Gertrude stood there gazing; she had not asked him to sit down.  She had never heard of people like that; she wanted to hear.  “Where do you live?” she asked.

“They can’t tell that, either!” said Felix.  “I am afraid you will think they are little better than vagabonds.  I have lived anywhere—­everywhere.  I really think I have lived in every city in Europe.”  Gertrude gave a little long soft exhalation.  It made the young man smile at her again; and his smile made her blush a little.  To take refuge from blushing she asked him if, after his long walk, he was not hungry or thirsty.  Her hand was in her pocket; she was fumbling with the little key that her sister had given her.  “Ah, my dear young lady,” he said, clasping his hands a little, “if you could give me, in charity, a glass of wine!”