of eternal youth was in his vivid dark eyes, and his smile, which had in it the tenderness of great experience, of long years lived in sympathy and love for mankind. His head was very noble; and its shape, and the way he had of carrying it, would alone have shown that he was Someone.
"Who is that man?" I whispered to Jack Dane. "That one who is so different from all the others."
"Can't you guess?" he asked.
"Not Mistral?"
"Yes. It 's one of his days here. He 'll be in the museum after lunch. I 'll take you there, and if he sees that you 're interested in things, he 'll talk to you."
"Oh, how glorious!" I breathed, quite awed at the prospect. "But if he should find out that we 're only lady's-maid and chauffeur?"
"Do you think it would matter to him who we were—a great genius like that? He would n't care if we were beggars, if we had souls and brains and hearts."
"Well, we have got some of those things," I said. "Do let's hurry, and get to the museum before our betters. They can always be counted upon to spend an hour and a half at lunch if there 's a good excuse, such as there 's sure to be in this place, famous for rich Provençal cooking. Whereas Monsieur Mistral looks as if he would grudge more than half an hour on an occupation so prosaic as eating."
"Nothing could be prosaic to him," said Mr. Dane.
"And that 's the secret of life, is n't it? I think you have it, too, and I 'm trying to take daily lessons from you.
