Gabrielle Rose was made for the spotlight, and that being absent, moonlight served as well. Under its soft merciful rays she stood revealed—the beauty thousands of playgoers knew and worshiped. Dick Minot gazed at her in awe. He was surprised that she held out her hand to him, a smile of the utmost friendliness on her face.
"How fortunate," she said, as though speaking the cue for a lovely song. "I stand here, the wonder of this old Spanish night getting into my very blood—and the only thing lacking in the picture is—a man. And then, you come."
"I'm glad to be of service," said Minot, tossing away his cigar.
"What an unromantic way to put it! Really, this chance meeting—it was a chance meeting, I suppose?—"
"A lucky chance," he agreed.
She pouted.
"Then you did not follow? Unromantic to the last! But as I was saying, this chance meeting is splendid. My train goes in an hour—and I wanted so very much to see you—once again."
"You flatter me."
