"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting." "Yes, he's that," admitted Monte. "And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me." If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day. "That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying, not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish." "To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned. "Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well be thorough." She smiled. Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an utterly selfish life. "Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of temperament?" "And temperament," she asked, "is what?" That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet he had his own ideas. "It's the way you're made," he suggested. "I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do." "And you'd rather paint?" She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to be very honest with herself. "I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well,