The Tigress. Warner Anne

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      There was something wraithlike about her. She appeared to hold kinship with the moonlight, which in its loveliness overspread lawns and flowerbeds near at hand and turned to opal the mists that hung and swayed over the valley beneath them, where the lovely Annandale roses were blowing.

      Until now he had always thought that her big eyes were violet-blue. But suddenly he saw opal lights in them and opal flame. And her gown was not white and silver, as he had fancied, but spun of moonbeams and studded with opals.

      Her long, sinuous figure, more revealed than hidden by its gauzy investure, suggested to him Lilith, and the medieval conception of an angel as well.

      He hardly expected an answer to the exclamatory question wrung from him by the torture of her words, but she had it ready.

      "Because I eminently prefer my matrimonial frying-pan to the blistering coals of the illicit," she said coolly.

      The boy—for he was scarcely more, big and handsome and strong though he appeared—looked terribly wobegone. But on the comparison floated a straw, and like the proverbial drowning man, he clutched at it.

      "You admit it's a frying-pan," he reminded her.

      "Sizzling hot," she told him. "I'm scorched through and through. My heart's a cinder."

      The straw went under, carrying him with it, but he still clung on. "Let me take you out of it," he pleaded desperately.

      But her shapely shoulders rose in a discouraging shrug.

      "Into the fire?" she asked calmly.

      "Into Elysium."

      She laughed at that. "Worse," she said with a touch of cynicism. "The home of the blessed dead! I'm not blessed and I'm not dead—and I don't want to be!"

      "You know I didn't mean that," he objected.

      "The only other Elysium I know is Elysium Hill, with its doleful deodars. A most distressing—"

      Young Andrews interrupted her by springing up. "Oh, don't be so frightfully literal!" he cried, annoyed to a point of misery. "You know very well what I meant."

      "If you're going to be rude—" she began threateningly. And on the instant he was in his chair again, leaning forward, groping for her bare hand.

      "No, you mustn't!" she warned, drawing both hands out of reach. "You'll only declare that I encouraged you."

      At that he gasped audibly. "Encouraged me!" he exclaimed when he breathed normally again. "Aren't you a little late with your caution? I suppose I never have been encouraged."

      "There! I knew you'd say it."

      "Well, I've held your hands dozens of times, haven't I? More than that, I've held you in my arms, and I've kissed your lips and your eyes and your hair. Isn't that encouragement?"

      She smiled calmly and whimsically.

      "Yes. Encouragement for me. I couldn't resist you."

      "Your heart isn't a cinder at all," he growled, frowning. "It's a stone! How many other men have you treated like this?"

      "None," she answered boldly. "I never treat two alike. I have too much imagination for that. There are always variations."

      His voice was very bitter as he said: "You'll meet your match some day. I hope to God you will!"

      "I've met him already," she returned. "He's the only man I care a straw about."

      "Your husband?" he hazarded.

      "Good Heavens! No! Poor Darling! He doesn't deserve the life I lead him. I'm charitable enough to wish him a better fate."

      "What happened to your match then?"

      "Now you are asking riddles," she said. "That question has never been satisfactorily answered."

      "You mean you don't wish to tell me, I suppose."

      "I'd give anything in the world if I could. He was reported dead eight years ago, but—"

      "He isn't?"

      "He wasn't then."

      "How do you know?"

      "He was heard from after."

      "Then he's alive still—you know that much?"

      "No," she replied languorously. "I don't know that much. He may have died since, don't you see?"

      "Let me find out for you," he proposed abruptly. "I'll—"

      "You're very kind, but you'd have your trouble for your pains. He doesn't want to be found, wherever he is, dead or alive, and I'll back him against the world when it comes to having his own way."

      She shivered slightly and drew the filmy scarf closer over her bare shoulders. "Besides," she added, "when the message was sent he was starting for 'the world's end,' and 'the world's end' is a big place to find a man. The needle and the hayrick are child's play to it."

      "I'm terribly interested," said young Andrews. "I am really. I didn't believe you'd admit any chap was your match. Do you mind telling me what he was like?"

      "He was more than my match," she confessed. "He was something else, and that is why no other man ever will be able to please me after his newness has worn off."

      "As mine has?"

      "As yours has."

      "Gad! But you're frank, Nina."

      "I know it. It's my one admirable quality. I'm tired of you, Gerald. I always get tired in the same place."

      "The same place?" he repeated, puzzled.

      "When they're not satisfied with a day and want to make it forever. The mere thought of forever wearies me. I feel like killing a man when he so much as hints at it."

      "You haven't killed your husband," he reminded her.

      "Ah, but how I have been tempted!" she laughed. "Some day I may."

      "I know something of what a beast Darling is," he ventured. "I've heard it at the club. They say—"

      "Don't!" she begged. "I won't listen. It may all be true, but I'd rather not hear it. I'm sorry for him. I'd only kill him to put him out of his misery—to put us both out of our misery."

      "Of course you don't mean that. You shouldn't say it."

      She didn't contradict him, and for a little there was silence between them. His thoughts reverted to the man who was her match—and more.

      "And the other man?" he queried. "You said he was something else. What else?"

      "My mate," she said simply. And again the silence fell.

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