"The sweetest--well, yes, a voice full of melody," he replied, with evident confusion that did not escape Cleo's quick gaze.
"Dozens of times--like a nightingale," he felt forced to confess.
"In San Juan, Porto Rico, two years back. I have not looked on her face since I fled those shores."
"Ah!" and that one word expressed keen disappointment, for Cleo read the story of his lost love in his face.
"Would it be presumptuous if I asked to know her name, Roderic--this girl of San Juan who risked so much to save your reputation if not your life? I feel under obligations to her, for your name is very dear to those who know you--those bound to you by ties of consanguinity."
"She comes of Spanish descent, but her heart is now only wrapped up in the future of the lovely gem of the Antilles. Her name is Georgia Inez de Brabant."
Perhaps his manner gave evidence that she was treading on dangerous ground.
"Thank you. Perhaps some day fortune may bring us together. I shall try to love her, Roderic, because you call her your _friend_!"
Then she branched off upon the subject of the cruise, to which she seemed to look forward with almost childish delight.
It is not every one to whom is given the proud fortune to own a modern steam yacht, and this daughter of Eve could be forgiven a fair amount of exhilaration under the circumstances.
Perhaps, truth to tell, the prospect of ten days basking in the company of her athletic cousin had something to do with her light spirits.
Owen's time was not wholly his own, so that he was soon forced to sally forth upon the streets of the Irish metropolis.
When Cleo was alone she hastened to her luxurious apartments and searching the inmost recesses of an inlaid traveling writing desk which had been taken from a capacious trunk, she soon pounced upon a small photograph.
It was wretchedly done by a tyro in Ponce, but even boorish work could not entirely conceal the fact that the face was that of a most lovely dark-eyed houri.
"I have had this now two years. Roderic dropped it in the garden, and I hid it away for a joke and then forgot to speak of it. This is the picture of a daughter of Porto Rico--is it the same who is now in Dublin, who last night at the peril of her name warned him of evil? I have reason to believe such to be the truth, for unless I am greatly mistaken I saw this same beauty coming out of St. Patrick's cathedral yesterday morning, when a gust of wind blew her veil aside. In this land where Irish gray or blue eyes abound I was immediately attracted by such a beautiful pair of melting dusky orbs.