"Seeing that I offered myself"—she suggested, with a smile.
"—is no reason that I should trespass on your kindness, so I shall carry my message myself." This quite firmly.
"I will sing again if you stay." She looked at him through her long lashes without turning
her head. "You see," she added, "I have made up my mind."
"It's a premium on discourtesy," he answered, "but I yield."
Near the place where she stood there was a fallen log, and he seated himself upon it, placing his hat on the ground as though for a continued stay, regarding her curiously.
She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet she showed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to him the impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went or stayed.
"Tell me," he said, "before you sing, where have you studied?"
"I?" she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful. "In Paris, in London, in Rome, in New York." There was bitterness in her tone. "I am a gamin of the world, monsieur."
"Tell me," he repeated, insistently.