young voice, triumph and faint defiance, and gayety again in her
changing eyes.

Extraordinary, those eyes. Innocent, audacious, bewildering.... To
look down into them produced the oddest of excitement.

He took off his mask. Masks were hindering things--he could see so
much better without.

She, too, could see better--could see him better. Shyly, yet
intently, her gaze took note of him, of the clean, clear-cut young
face, bronzed and rather thin, of the dark hair that looked darker
against the scarlet cap, of the deep-set eyes, hazel-brown, that met
hers so often and were so full of contradictory things ... life ...
and humor ... and frank simplicity ... and subtle eagerness.

He looked so young and confident and handsome....

"You are--a Scotchman?" slipped out from her black yashmak.

"Only in costume. I am an American."

She repeated it a little musingly. "I do not think I ever met an
American young man." She added, "I have met old ones--yes, and
middle-aged ones and the women--but a young one, no."

"A retired spot, that school of yours," said Ryder appreciatively.
"You are French?"

"That is for your imagination!" Teasingly, she laughed. "I am,