"Because you have merely indicated that you are a wealthy American."

"Why wealthy?"

"If not, you would have some aim in life—a calling or profession."

"And you think I have none?"

"Unless you consider it your vocation to be a wealthy American."

"I don't. Besides, I'm not wealthy. In point of fact, I ..."     He pulled up short, on the verge of declaring himself a pauper.     "I am a painter."

Her eyes lightened with interest. "An artist?"

"I hope so. I don't paint signs—or houses," he remarked.

Amused, she laughed softly. "I suspected it," she declared.

"Not really?"

"It was your way of looking at—things, that made me guess it: the painter's way. I have often noticed it."

"As if mentally blending colors all the time?"

"Yes; that and—seeing flaws."

"I have discovered none," he told her brazenly.

But again her secret cares were claiming her thoughts, and the gay, inconsequential banter died upon her scarlet lips as a second time her glance ranged away, sounding mysterious depths of anxiety.

Provoked, he would have continued the chatter. "I have confessed," he persisted. "You know everything of material interest about me. And yourself?"

"I am merely Dorothy Calendar," she answered.

"Nothing more?" He laughed.

"That is all, if you please, for the present."

"I am to content myself with the promise of the future?"

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