fine steel mail, with a black corselet protecting back and breast decorated with horizontal bands.
"Do you notice the difference?" she asked. "In German armour the bands are vertical. This is Milanese, and I think the Negrolis made it. See how exquisitely the morion is decorated with these lions' heads in gold for cheek pieces, and these bands of gold damascene over the skull-piece, that meet to form Minerva's face above the brow! I'm sure it's the Negrolis work. Wait! Ah, here is the inscription! 'P. Iacobi et Fratr Negroli Faciebant MDXXXIX.' Bring me Grenville's book, please."
She took it, ran over the pages rapidly, found what she wanted, and then stepped forward and laid her white hand on the shoulder of another grim, mailed figure.
"This is foot-armour," she said, "and does not belong with that morion. It's neither Milanese nor yet of Augsburg make; it's Italian, but who made it I don't know. You see it's a superb combination of parade armour and war mail, with all the gorgeous design of the former and the smoothness and toughness of the latter. Really, Mr. Desboro, this investigation is becoming exciting. I never before saw such a suit of foot-armour."
"Perhaps it belonged to the catcher of some ancient baseball club," he suggested.
She turned, laughing, but exasperated: "I'm not going to let you remain near me," she said. "You annihilate every atom of romance; you are an anachronism here, anyway."
"I know it; but you fit in delightfully with tournaments and pageants and things——"
"Go up on that ladder and sit!" resolutely pointing.
He went. Perched aloft, he lighted a cigarette and surveyed the prospect.
"Mark Twain killed all this sort of thing for me," he observed.
She said indignantly: "It's the only thing I never have forgiven him."
"He told the truth."
"I know it—I know it. But, oh, how could he write what he did about King Arthur's Court! And what is the use of truth, anyway, unless it leaves us ennobling illusions?"
Ennobling illusions! She did not know it; but except for them she never would have existed, nor others like her that are yet to come in myriads.
Desboro waved his cigarette gracefully and declaimed:
"The knights are dust,
Their good swords bust;
Their souls are up the spout we trust—"
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"That silly parody on a noble verse is not humorous."
"Truth seldom is. The men who wore those suits of mail were everything that nobody now admires—brutal, selfish, ruthless——"
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Are there not a number of such gentlemen still existing on earth?"
"New York's full of them," he admitted cheerfully, "but they conceal what they really are on account of the police."
"Is that all that five hundred years has taught men—concealment?"
"Yes, and five thousand," he muttered; but said aloud: "It hasn't anything to do with admiring the iron hats and clothes they wore. If you'll let me come down I'll admire 'em——"
"No."
"I want to carry your book for you."
"No."
"—And listen to everything you say about the vertical stripes on their Dutch trousers——"
"Very well," she consented, laughing; "you may descend and examine these gold inlaid and checkered trousers. They were probably made for a fashionable dandy by Alonso Garcia, five hundred years ago; and you will observe that they are still beautifully creased."
So they passed on, side by side, while she sketched out her preliminary work. And sometimes he was idly flippant and irresponsible, and sometimes she thrilled unexpectedly at his quick, warm response to some impulsive appeal that he share her admiration.
Under the careless surface, she divined a sort of perverse intelligence; she was certain that what appealed to her he, also, understood when he chose to; because he understood so much—much that she had not even imagined—much of life, and of the world, and of the men and women in it. But, having lived a life so full, so different from her own, perhaps his interest was less easily aroused; perhaps it might be even a little fatigued by the endless pageant moving with him amid scenes of brightness and happiness which seemed to her as far away from herself and as unreal as scenes in the painted arras hanging on the walls.
They had been speaking of operas in which armour, incorrectly designed and worn, was tolerated by public ignorance; and, thinking of the "horseshoe," where all that is wealthy, and intelligent, and wonderful, and aristocratic in New York is supposed to congregate, she had mentally placed him there among those elegant and distant young men who are to be seen sauntering from one gilded box to another, or, gracefully posed, decorating and further embellishing boxes already replete with jeweled and feminine beauty; or in the curtained depths, mysterious silhouettes motionless against the dull red glow.
And, if those gold-encrusted boxes had been celestial balconies, full of blessed damosels leaning over heaven's edge, they would have seemed no farther away, no more accessible to her, than they seemed from where she sometimes sat or stood, all alone, to listen to Farrar and Caruso.
The light in the armoury was growing a little dim. She bent more closely over her note-book, the printed pages of Mr. Grenville, and the shimmering, inlaid, and embossed armour.
"Shall we have tea?" he suggested.
"Tea? Oh, thank you, Mr. Desboro; but when the light fails, I'll have to go."
It was failing fast. She used the delicate tips of her fingers more often in examining engraved, inlaid, and embossed surfaces.
"I never had electricity put into the armoury," he said. "I'm sorry now—for your sake."
"I'm sorry, too. I could have worked until six."
"There!" he said, laughing. "You have admitted it! What are you going to do for nearly two hours if you don't take tea? Your train doesn't leave until six. Did you propose to go to the station and sit there?"
Her confused laughter was very sweet, and she admitted that she had nothing to do after the light failed except to fold her hands and wait for the train.
"Then won't you have tea?"
"I'd—rather not!"
He said: "You could take it alone in your room if you liked—and rest a little. Mrs. Quant will call you."
She looked up at him after a moment, and her cheeks were very pink and her eyes brilliant.
"I'd rather take it with you, Mr. Desboro. Why shouldn't I say so?"
No words came to him, and not much breath, so totally unexpected was her reply.
Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seriousness, she repeated:
"Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You know better than I what a girl alone may do. And I really would like to have some tea—and have it with you."
He didn't smile; he was too clever—perhaps too decent.
"It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it served in the library where there's a fine fire."
So they slowly crossed the armoury and traversed the hallway, where she left him for a moment and ran up stairs to her room. When she rejoined him in the library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had been deftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; but the first shake of her head dislodged it again, and there it was, threatening him, as usual, from its soft, warm ambush against her