Her fingers stirred over the keys again, and Grieg's Papillon fluttered softly from flower to flower.
CHAPTER VI
INTO THE FOG AGAIN
He sat there, waiting and listening. From the light and airy butterfly, the music changed to Farwell's Norwegian Song. Hillard saw the lonely sea, the lonely twilight, the lonely gull wheeling seaward, the lonely little cottage on the cliffs, and the white moon in the far east. And presently she spoke, still playing softly.
"My father was an American, my mother Italian. But I have lived in Europe nearly all my life. There! You have more of my history than I intended telling you." The music went dreamily.
"I knew it. Who but an American woman would have the courage to do what you are doing to-night? Who but one of mine own countrywomen would trust me so wholly and accept me so frankly for what I am, an American gentleman?"
"Softly!" she warned. "You will dig a pit for your vanity."
"No. I am an American gentleman, and I am proud of it; though this statement in your ears may have a school-boy ring."
"A nobility in this country? Impossible!"