"Try once more," said Miriam, pithily.
"How?"
"Are you afraid of this masked man?"
"Afraid? Certainly not. I have nothing to fear. Did he not keep his word and restore me to my friends at the expiration of the week? You should have heard him, Miriam, at that last interview—the eloquent, earnest, impassioned way in which he bid me good-bye. I declare, I felt tempted for an instant to say: 'Look here, Mr. Mask; if you love me like that, and if you're absolutely not a fright, take off that ugly, black death's-head you wear, and I'll stay with you always, since I am your wife.' But I didn't."
"You would not fear to meet him again, then?"
"On the contrary, I should like it, of all things. There is a halo of romance about this mysterious husband of mine that renders him intensely interesting. Girls love romance dearly; and I'm only a girl, you know."
"And the silliest girl I ever did know," said Miriam. "I believe you're more than half in love with this man in the mask; and if it turns out to be the artist, you will plump into his arms, forever and always."
"I shouldn't wonder in the least," responded the young, lady, coolly. "I never knew how much I liked poor dear Hugh until I gave him his congé. He's so very, very, very handsome, you see, Miriam; and I adore beauty."
"Very well. Find out if it's he—and find out at once."
"More easily said than done, isn't it?"