The incognito diva was a dream of beauty in her ravishing Viennese morning dress.

Randall Clayton drew a new courage from Fraeulein Irma's murmured remark, "Madame Raffoni, unfortunately, speaks no English," and the young enthusiast only noted that the ex-professional still possessed splendid eyes, and showed the remains of a considerable personal beauty.
His whole cares fell away from him as Clayton joined in the merry mood of his beautiful enchantress.

The little dejeuner was a perfect rapprochement, in the light-hearted happiness of the hour.
Clayton had cast aside all suspicion when he left the doors of the Western Trading Company, and over the Liebfrauenmilch and Tokayer he found a new eloquence.

His Western stories, his European experiences vastly interested the dark-eyed enchantress, and, led on by the spell of those wistful eyes--Othello-like--he told her the whole story of his life.

For he stood before her, all unarmed in his sudden love fever.
Two hours sped by in a lingering day dream, until, yielding to his murmured entreaties, Irma Gluyas sat down at the piano, and in thrilling half voice, sang him the songs of the far off Magyar land.
As Merlin forgot his wisdom before the wily white-bosomed Vivien, so did the stormy-hearted American yield to the charm of the woman who sat there, with the choicest flowers of his offering clustered over her sculptured breast.