Le Breton's gaze rested on the vivid, beautiful little face, with the full, perfect, generous mouth, telling of an unselfish, disinterested nature that would love swiftly and deeply.
"Some day you'll find yourself in love before you know it," he commented.
"So other people have said. And it makes me horribly nervous at times. Like a blind man walking on the edge of a precipice."
"So long as you fell in love with a man who could appreciate you, it would be all right,—a man sufficiently versed in women to know you have qualities beyond your beauty to recommend you."
With some surprise Pansy glanced at him.
A soft heart lay beneath her light manner. Quite half her income was spent for the benefit of others. She wondered how he knew about these "qualities," considering their brief acquaintance. And she wondered, too, why she was sitting there discussing love with him; a subject she never would let any man approach, if it could be avoided. She put it down to the fact that her identity was unknown to him, and she could talk to him freely, knowing her millions were no temptation.
"One thing," she said mischievously, "money will never attract me. I've no expensive tastes. I like views and flowers and sunsets. Moons and stars and seas and sago pudding. Horses and chocolates and—my own way. All things that don't require a tremendous income."
There was a brief silence.
In a calculating manner Le Breton watched her. She was a new type to him; a girl who could not be approached in the way most women could be—by the easy route of costly presents.
The air was heavy with the scent of roses. In the distance a guitar was playing; a throb of melody, faint and seductive, that fed the craving in the man's heart.