living person in this country. I want to know what it is. It isn't exactly vulgar inquisitiveness, believe me. I am perfectly certain that there is something more of you than you show to people generally."
David was conscious of an odd sense of relief. After all, the woman was only curious--and it was most improbable that her curiosity would lead her in the right direction.
"You are very discerning, Duchess," he said. "Unfortunately, I have no confidence to offer you. The one secret in my life is some one else's and not my own."
"And you never betray a confidence?" she asked, looking at him steadfastly. "You could be trusted?"
"I hope so," he assured her.
Their lunch passed on to its final stages. The Duchess smoked a Russian cigarette with her coffee, and it seemed to him that imperceptibly she had moved a little nearer to him. Her elbows were upon the table and her hands clasped. She seemed for a moment to study one or two quaint rings upon her fingers.
"A few more questions, and I shall feel that we know one another," she said. "Just why have you left America and this wonderful pursuit of wealth?"
"Because there were no more railways in which I was interested," he answered, "nor any particular speculation or enterprise that appealed to me. I have more money than I can ever spend, and I know very well that if I remained in America I should have no peace. I should be a target for years for every man who has land to sell near railways, or shares to sell, or an invention to perfect. As soon as I decided to wind up, I decided also that it was necessary for me to clear right away. Apart from that, England and English life attracts me."
"And this purpose?" she enquired. "This secret--which is somebody else's secret?"
"Such as it is," he replied, "it belongs to this country."
"How old are you?" she asked suddenly.
"I am thirty-seven," he told her.
She sighed. Her slightly tired blue eyes seemed to be looking through the little cloud of cigarette smoke to the confines of the room.
"A magnificent age for a man," she murmured, "but a little ghastly for a woman. I was thirty-nine last birthday. Never mind, one has the present. So here are you, in the prime of life, with an immense fortune and no responsibilities. If Disraeli had been alive, he would have written a novel about you. There is so much which you could do, so much in which you could fail. Will you become just a man about town here, make friends partly in Bohemia and partly amongst some of us, endow a theatre and marry the first chorus girl who is too clever for you? Or--"
"I am more interested in the 'or,'" he declared rashly.
She turned her eyes slightly without moving her head, and knocked the ash from her cigarette into her plate.
"Let us go," she said, a little abruptly. "I am tired of 

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