squarely, open-eyed. A man, looking at her, would feel rising in his breast not that instinct of protection which most women awaken, but rather that instinct of the conqueror which is, perhaps, our heritage from the Vikings.
It was to Richard Delroy that Tremaine had applied for assistance in promoting the Martinique railroad. How he gained an introduction, I do not know—perhaps from some uncritical man in the Street; but gain it he did, and he used the opportunity to good advantage. I can easily imagine the perfection of wizardry he brought to bear upon Delroy—the persuasive eloquence, the irresistible fascination. In the end, he succeeded not only in persuading Delroy of the perfect feasibility of the scheme, but in gaining admission to Delroy’s family.
It had been achieved in this wise:
They were discussing the railroad enterprise one afternoon, and finally the talk wandered to art and then to music. Delroy was delighted to find his companion a connoisseur of delicate perception and apparently wide experience.
“I suppose you’ve been attending the opera?” he inquired, finally.
“Oh, certainly; always when there is something I care especially to hear.”
“De Reszke and Melba are on to-night.”
“I intend to be there,” said Tremaine instantly, no doubt guessing at what would follow.
“Then come up to our box,” said Delroy. “We’ll be glad to have you.”
“I shall be very glad to come.”
