"Upon my soul!" Mme. Dumois had backed until the table barred her retreat. "You are a most extraordinary young man!"
"Should one permit the ugliness of life to blind one to the beauties of expression? But I see you have not done so. You possess that rarest of all gifts, sympathetic appreciation, Madame Dumois!" He beamed upon her. "Do you remember this lament of Majnun over the grave of Laili? Where even in the exquisite love letters of your own Abelard to Heloise, can you find such haunting beauty? Listen, I beg of you:
"Oh, bower of joy, with blossoms fresh and fair,
But doomed, alas! no ripened fruit to bear.
Where shall I find thee now in darkness shrouded!
Those eyes of liquid fire forever clouded—"
He sighed dramatically and closed the book. "Your French poets—but I forgot; I had fancied from your name that you were a native of France—"
"I am American—" Madame Dumois stammered, still dazed from his unexpected onslaught.
"That I realized at once when I saw you. I knew even the part of the country from which you came, Madame." He bowed again. "Only the women of New England retain their girlhood grace and beauty of form with their native charm of manner through years of cosmopolitan life, as this little volume has retained its beauty of thought and inspiration in spite of the fact that it was discovered in the pocket of an arch murderer when he was searched in the death house."
A faint flush had risen to the faded cheeks of the old lady at his daring flattery, but she paled again with an involuntary shudder.