She looked him honestly in the eyes. She had spoken with the soft irony
of truth, the blind tyranny of the just. She had meant to test him here
and there by throwing little darts of satire, and yet he made her serious
and candid in spite of herself. He was of kin to her in some part of
his nature. He did not concern her as a man of personal or social
possibilities--merely as an active originality. Leaning back languidly,
she was eyeing him closely from under drooping lids, smiling, too, in an
unimportant sort of way, as if what she had said was a trifle.

Consummate liar and comedian, or true man and no pretender, his eyes did
not falter. They were absorbed, as if in eager study of a theme.

"Yes, yes, that's it; and if he has it, what next?" said he meaningly.

"Well, then, opportunity, joined to coolness, knowledge of men, power of
combination, strategy, and"--she paused, and a purely feminine curiosity
impelled her to add suggestively--"and a woman."

He nodded. "And a woman," he repeated after her musingly, and not
turning it to account cavalierly, as he might have done. He was taking
himself with a simple seriousness that appealed to her.

"You may put strategy out of the definition, leaving in the woman," she
continued ironically.

He felt the point, and her demure dart struck home. But he saw what an
ally she might make. Tremendous possibilities moved before him. His
heart beat faster than it did yesterday when the old sergeant faced him.
Here was beauty--he admired that; power--he wished for that. What might
he not accomplish, no matter how wild his move, with this wonderful