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 ugly a mask, because she is so pretty that even her rage is pretty, too; but the next time we see her she may be wearing the mask of a gentle angel. Which one is she, herself? If you meet her at El Kantara you may think her the angel."

For a moment Ogle was puzzled. "The young girl who was rude to her mother," he repeated; then he remembered. "Oh, you mean 'Baby,' this fellow Tinker's daughter."

Mme. Momoro laughed and her glance, passing over his shoulder, became more luminous. "Is she his daughter? Poor man, does he call her 'Bébé'? How pretty! What is her real name?"

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea," Ogle said coldly. "I fear that it would take more than an unearthly landscape to give that young lady the appearance of an angel in my eyes," he added, "or, for that matter, to make me care to notice what appearance she bears at all."

"Take care!" Mme. Momoro warned him gaily. "You cannot tell what you may become when you get away from this ship, Mr. Ogle, for the ship is still America. You have really not left home yet, all of you Americans."