This man was full of surprises for Etta Sydney Bamborough. It was like
playing with fire--a form of amusement which will be popular as long as
feminine curiosity shall last.

"You are rather shocking," she said lightly. "But it is all over now, so
we need not dig up old grievances. Only I want you to understand that
that photograph represents a part of my life which was only
painful--nothing else."

Paul, standing in front of her, looked down thoughtfully at the
beautiful upturned face. His hands were clasped behind him, his firm
mouth set sternly beneath the great fair mustache. In Russia the men
have good eyes--blue, fierce, intelligent. Such eyes had the son of the
Princess Alexis. There was something in Etta Bamborough that stirred up
within him a quality which men are slowly losing--namely, chivalry.
Steinmetz held that this man was quixotic, and what Steinmetz said was
usually worth some small attention. Whatever faults that poor knight of
La Mancha who has been the laughing-stock of the world these many
centuries--whatever faults or foolishness may have been his, he was at
all events a gentleman.

Paul's instinct was to pity this woman for the past that had been hers;
his desire was to help her and protect her, to watch over her and fight
her battles for her. It was what is called Love. But there is no word in
any spoken language that covers so wide a field. Every day and all day
we call many things love which are not love. The real thing is as rare
as genius, but we usually fail to recognize its rarity. We misuse the
word, for we fail to draw the necessary distinctions. We fail to
recognize the plain and simple truth that many of us are not able to