and a language which was known from Bokhara to Wandsworth, and from
Waikiki to Valparaiso, gave him dignity of a kind, clothed him with
importance.

Yet she wanted to tell this man beside her the whole truth, and see what
he would do. Would he turn his face away in disgust? What had she a
right to tell? She knew well that her father would wish her to keep to
that secrecy which so far had sheltered them--at least until Jethro
Fawe's coming.

At last she turned and looked him in the eyes, the flush gone from her
face.

"I'm not Irish--do I look Irish?" she asked quietly, though her heart
was beating unevenly.

"You look more Irish than anything else, except, maybe, Slav or
Hungarian--or Gipsy," he said admiringly and unwittingly.

"I have Gipsy blood in me," she answered slowly, "but no Irish or
Hungarian blood."

"Gipsy--is that so?" he said spontaneously, as she watched him so
intently that the pulses throbbed at her temples.

A short time ago Fleda might have announced her origin defiantly, now her
courage failed her. She did not wish him to be prejudiced against her.

"Well, well," he added, "I only just guessed at it, because there's
something unusual and strong in you, not because your eyes are so dark