about myself."

"I mean," she explained, "that you are one of those people who
struggle hard to get just what they want in life."

His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness to Napoleon.

"I do more than struggle," he affirmed, "I succeed. If I make up
my mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make up my mind to get a
thing, I get it. It means hard work sometimes, but that is all."

For the first time, a really natural interest shone out of her
eyes. The half sulky contempt with which she had received his
advances passed away. She became at that moment a human being,
self-forgetting, the heritage of her charms--for she really had a
curious but very poignant attractiveness--suddenly evident. It
was only a momentary lapse and it was entirely wasted. Not even
one of the waiters happened to be looking that way, and Tavernake
was thinking wholly of himself.

"It is a good deal to say--that," she remarked, reflectively.

"It is a good deal but it is not too much," he declared. "Every
man who takes life seriously should say it."

Then she laughed--actually laughed--and he had a vision of
flashing white teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves,
of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative,
inspiring. A vague impression as of something pleasant warmed
his blood. It was a rare thing for him to be so stirred, but