"Who taught you to pose--and to dance like that, you wonder-child?"

Magda surveyed him with that mixture of saint and devil in her long,
suddenly narrow eyes which, when she grew to womanhood, was the measure
of her charm and the curse of her tempestuous life.

"_Le bon dieu_," she responded demurely.

The man smiled and shook his head. It was a crooked little smile, oddly
humorous and attractive.

"No," he said with conviction. "No. I don't think so."

The daylight was beginning to fade, and he started to pack up his
belongings.

"What's your name?" asked Magda suddenly.

"Michael."

She looked at him with sudden awe.

"Not--not _Saint Michel_?" she asked breathlessly.

Virginie had told her all about "_Saint Michel_." He was a very great
angel indeed. It would be tremendously exciting to find she had been
talking to him all this time without knowing it! And the grey-eyed man
had fair hair; it shone in the glinting sunset-light _almost_ like a
halo!