Mayer recognized the room as a familiar type--he had been in many such
in many lands. But the girl did not fit it. She looked to him very
un-American, more like a Spaniard or a French midinette. There was
nothing about her that suggested the stage, no make-up, none of its bold
coquetry or crude allure. She was rather stiff and prim, watchful, he
thought, and her face added to the impression. With its high cheek bones
and dusky coloring he found it attractive, but also a baffling and
noncommittal mask.

He was even more than she had anticipated. His deep bow over her hand,
his deference, thrilled her as the Prince might have thrilled Cinderella.
She was very careful of her manners, keeping to the weather, expressing
herself with guarded brevity. A chill constraint threatened to blight the
occasion, but Mayer, versed in the weaknesses of stage folk, directed the
conversation to her performance in "The Zingara," for which he professed
an ardent admiration.

"I was surprised by it, even after what I'd heard. I wonder if you know
how good it is?"

Her color deepened.

"I try to make it good, I've been trying for six years."

He smiled.

"Six years! You must have begun when you were a child."

This was too much for Pancha. Her delight at his praise had been hard to
suppress; now it burst all bonds. She forgot her refinement and the