Mr. Revington seated himself also, and glanced carefully around, to make sure that no one was in hearing distance of himself and his fair companion.
"I see that you have no faith in my power of making an interesting communication to you," he said, addressing himself to Irene.
"No, I cannot imagine your telling me anything I should like to hear," she retorted, coldly.
An angry light flared into the man's dark eyes a moment, but he bit his lip to keep back a sharp rejoinder. Her willfulness, her pretty petulances, had an actual fascination for him.
"Such an answer from any one but you, Miss Berlin, would be actual rudeness," he said, lightly. "But whether frowning or smiling you are ever charming to me. You remind me of nothing so much as one of Tennyson's heroines, 'a rosebud set with little willful thorns.'"
She answered not a word. Her fair face was averted, and her blue eyes gazed at the silvery Arno softly gliding past.
"You have been a beautiful, enchanting mystery to me ever since I met you," he continued, slowly. "I have wondered whence you came and to whom you belonged, but with no hope of unsealing your beautiful lips or the secret they held so close. But chance—or shall I call it fate?—has solved the mystery for me."
She turned her head and looked at him suddenly, her blue eyes dark with fear and wonder.
"What can you mean?" she exclaimed.
"I mean that when I came upon your picture in your locket just now the mystery of your identity was solved for me," he replied, coolly, glad that he had roused her at last.