“We danced in silence for several minutes and he danced divinely.

“He stopped suddenly.  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.  ’I want to talk to you.’

“I looked at him in amazement.  ‘But I want to dance.’

“‘You can always dance,’ he said, quietly, ’but you cannot always talk to me.’

“There was nothing in his manner to indicate the preliminaries of a flirtation.  He was perfectly serious and he evidently thought that he was offering me a privilege.  Curiosity made me follow him, and he led the way down the hall to a secluded reception room where there was a long mirror, a little table, and a big bunch of old-fashioned roses in a bowl.

“On our way we passed a row of chairs, where some one had left a wrap and a scarf.  Colin snatched up the scarf—­it was a long wide one of white chiffon.  The next morning I returned it to him, and he found the owner.  I am not sure what explanation he made for his theft, but it was undoubtedly attributed to the eccentricities of genius!

“Well, when, as I said, we reached the little room, he pulled a chair forward for me, so that I sat directly in front of the mirror.

“I remember that I surveyed myself complacently.  To my deluded eyes, my appearance could not be improved.  My head, swathed in its golden coif, seemed to give the final perfect touch.”

She laughed again at the memory, and Porter found himself immensely amused.  She had such a cool way of turning her mental processes inside out and holding them up for others to see.

“As I sat there, stealing glances at myself, I became conscious that my little blond man was studying me.  Other men had looked at me, but never with such a cold, calculating gaze—­and when he spoke to me, I nearly jumped out of my shoes—­his voice was crisp, incisive.

“‘Take it off,’ he said, and touched the gauze that tied up my head.

“I gasped.  Then I drew myself up in an attempt at haughtiness.  But he wasn’t impressed a bit.

“‘I suppose you know that I am an artist, Miss Jeliffe,’ he said, ’and from the moment you came into the room, I haven’t had a bit of peace.  You’re spoiling your type—­and it affects me as a chromo would, or a crude crayon portrait, or any other dreadful thing.’

“Do you know how it feels to be called a ‘dreadful thing’ by a man like that?  Well, it simply made me shrivel up and have shivers down my spine.

“‘But why?’ I stammered.

“‘Women like you,’ he said, ’belong to the stately, the aristocratic type.  You can be a grande dame or a duchess—­and you are making of yourself—­what?  A soubrette, with your tango skirt and your strapped slippers, and your hideous head-dress—­take it off.’

“‘But I can’t take it off,’ I said, almost tearfully; ’my hair underneath is—­awful.’

“’It doesn’t make any difference about your hair underneath—­it can’t be worse than it is,’ he roared.  ’I want to see your coloring—­take it off.’