"Butor!" roared the butcher. "Cochon! He trod on my foot!"

"He is an English pig!" sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. "Let me read it now," she whined.

"Hands off," growled the man, "I'll read you what I think good."

"But it's my paper."

"It's mine now — shut up."

The first thing Gethryn did on reaching home was to write a note to his friend, the Prefect of the Seine, telling him how the child of Rigaud came by the gold pieces. Then he had a quiet smoke, and then he went out and lunched at the Cafe des Ecoles, frugally, on a sandwich and a glass of beer. After that he returned to his studio and sat down to his desk again. He opened a small memorandum book and examined some columns of figures. They were rather straggling, not very well kept, but they served to convince him that his accounts were forty francs behind, and he would have to economize a little for the next week or two. After this, he sat and thought steadily. Finally he took a sheet of his best cream laid note paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write. The note was short, but it took him a long while to compose it, and when it was sealed and directed to "Miss Ruth Deane, Lung' Arno Guicciardini, Florence, Italy," he sat holding it in his hand as if he did not know what to do with it.

Two o'clock struck. He started up, and quickly rolling up the shades from the glass roof and pulling out his easel, began to squeeze tube after tube of color upon his palette. The parrot came down and tiptoed about the floor, peering into color boxes, pastel cases, and pots of black soap, with all the curiosity of a regulation studio bore. Steps echoed on the tiles outside.

Gethryn opened the door quickly. "Ah, Elise! Bon jour!" he said, pleasantly. "Entrez donc!"

"Merci, Monsieur Gethryn," smiled his visitor, a tall, well-shaped girl with dark eyes and red cheeks.

"Ten minutes late," Elise, said Gethryn, laughing, "my time's worth a franc a minute; so prepare to pay up."

"Very well," retorted the girl, also laughing and showing her pretty teeth, "but I have decided to charge twenty francs an hour from today. Now, what do you owe me, Monsieur?"

Gethryn shook his brushes at her. "You are spoiled, Elise — you used to pose very well and were never late."

"And I pose well now!" she cried, her professional pride piqued. "Monsieur Bonnat and Monsieur Constant have praised me all this week. Voila," she finished, throwing off her waist and letting her skirts fall in a circle to her feet.

"Oh, you can pose if you will," answered Gethryn, pleasantly. "Come, we begin?"

The girl stepped daintily out of the pile of discarded clothes, and picking her way across the room with her bare feet, sprang lightly upon the model stand.

"The same as last week?" she asked, smiling frankly.

"Yes, that's it," he replied, shifting his easel and glancing up at the light; "only drop the left elbow a bit — there, that's it; now a little to the left — the knee — that will do."

The girl settled herself into the pose, glanced at the clock, and then turning to Gethryn said, "And I am to look at you, am I not?"

"Where could you find a more charming object?" murmured he, sorting his brushes.

"Thank you," she pouted, stealing a glance at him; "than you?"

"Except Mademoiselle Elise. There, now we begin!"

The rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes and the scraping of the palette knife.

"Are you tired?" asked Gethryn, looking at the clock; "you have ten minutes more."

"No," said the girl, "continue."

Finally Gethryn rose and stepped back.

"Time," he said, still regarding his work. "Come and give me a criticism, Elise."

The girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to Gethryn.

"What do you say?" he demanded, anxiously.

Artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their models than to those of a brother artist. For, although models may be ignorant of method — which, however, is not always the case — from seeing so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often goes straight to the mark.

It was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was listening now.

"I like it very much — very much," answered the girl, slowly; "but, you see — I am not so cold in the face — am I?"

"Hit it, as usual," muttered the artist, biting his lip; "I've got more greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock's tail. You're right," he added, aloud, "I must warm that up a bit — there in the shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold."

Elise nodded seriously. "Monsieur Chaplain and I have finished our picture," she announced, after a pause.

It is a naive way models have of appropriating work in which, truly enough, they have no small share. They often speak of "our pictures" and "our success."

"How do you like it?" asked the artist, absently.

"Good," — she shrugged her shoulders — "but not truth."

"Right again," murmured Gethryn.

"I prefer Dagnan," added the pretty critic.

"So do I — rather!" laughed Gethryn.

"Or you," said the girl.

"Come, come," cried the young man, coloring with pleasure, "you don't mean it, Elise!"

"I say what I mean — always," she replied, marching over to the pups and gathering them into her arms.

"I'm going to take a cigarette," she announced, presently.

"All right," said Gethryn, squeezing more paint on his palette, "you'll find some mild ones on the bookcase."

Elise gave the pups a little hug and kiss, and stepped lightly over to the bookcase. Then she lighted a cigarette and turned and surveyed herself in the mirror.

"I'm thinner than I was last year. What do you think?" she demanded, studying her pretty figure in the glass.

"Perhaps a bit, but it's all the better. Those corsets simply ruined you as a model last year."

Elise looked serious and shook her head.

"I do feel so much better without them. I won't wear them again."

"No, you have a pretty, slender figure, and you don't want them. That's why I always get you when I can. I hate to draw or paint from a girl whose hips are all discolored with ugly red creases from her confounded corset."

The girl glanced contentedly at her supple, clean-limbed figure, and then, with a laugh, jumped upon the model stand.

"It's not time," said Gethryn, "you have five minutes yet."

"Go on, all the same." And soon the rattle of the brushes alone broke the silence.

At last Gethryn rose and backed off with a sigh.

"How's that, Elise?" he called.

She sprang down and stood looking over his shoulder.

"Now I'm like myself!" she cried, frankly; "it's delicious! But hurry and block in the legs, why don't you?"

"Next pose," said the young man, squeezing out more color.

And so the afternoon wore away, and at six o'clock Gethryn threw down his brushes with a long-drawn breath.

"That's all for today. Now, Elise, when can you give me the next pose? I don't want a week at a time on this; I only want a day now and then."

The model went over to her dress and rummaged about in the pockets.

"Here," she said, handing him a notebook and diary.

He selected a date, and wrote his name and the hour.

"Good," said the girl, reading it; and replacing the book, picked up her stockings and slowly began to dress.

Gethryn lay back on the lounge, thoroughly tired out. Elise was humming a Normandy fishing song. When, at last, she stood up and drew on her gloves, he had fallen into a light sleep.

She stepped softly over to the lounge and listened to the quiet breathing of the young man.

"How handsome — and how good he is!" she murmured, wistfully.

She opened the door very gently.

"So different, so different from the rest!" she sighed, and noiselessly went her way.

Eight

Although the sound of the closing door was hardly perceptible, it was enough to wake Gethryn.

"Elise!" he called, starting up, "Elise!"

But the girl was beyond earshot.

"And she went away without her money, too; I'll drop around tomorrow and leave it; she may need it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes and staring at the door.

It was dinner time, and past, but he had little appetite.

"I'll just have something here," he said to himself, and catching up his hat ran down stairs. In twenty minutes he was back with eggs, butter, bread, a pate, a bottle of wine and a can of sardines. The spirit lamp was lighted and the table deftly spread.

"I'll have a cup of tea, too," he thought, shaking the blue tea canister, and then, touching a match to the well-filled grate, soon had the kettle fizzling and spluttering merrily.

The wind had blown up cold from the east and the young man shivered as he closed and fastened the windows. Then he sat down, his chin on his hands, and gazed into the glowing grate. Mrs Gummidge, who had smelled the sardines, came rubbing up against his legs, uttering a soft mew from sheer force of habit. She was not hungry — in fact, Gethryn knew that the concierge, whose duty it was to feed all the creatures, overdid it from pure kindness of heart — at Gethryn's expense.

"Gummidge, you're stuffed up to your eyes, aren't you?" he said.

At the sound of his voice the cat hoisted her tail, and began to march in narrowing circles about her master's chair, making gentle observations in the cat language.

Gethryn placed a bit of sardine on a fork and held it out, but the little humbug merely sniffed at it daintily, and then rubbed against her master's hand.

He laughed and tossed the bit of fish into the fire, where it spluttered and blazed until the parrot woke up with a croak of annoyance. Gethryn watched the kettle in silence.

Faces he could never see among the coals, but many a time he had constructed animals and reptiles from the embers, and just now he fancied he could see a resemblance to a shark among the bits of blazing coal.

He watched the kettle dreamily. The fire glowed and flashed and sank, and glowed again. Now he could distinctly see a serpent twisting among the embers. The clock ticked in measured unison with the slow oscillation of the flame serpent. The wind blew hard against the panes and sent a sudden chill creeping to his feet.

Bang! Bang! went the blinds. The hallway was full of strange noises. He thought he heard a step on the threshold; he imagined that his door creaked, but he did not turn around from his study of the fire; it was the wind, of course.

The sudden hiss of the kettle, boiling over, made him jump and seize it. As he turned to set it down, there was a figure standing beside the table. Neither spoke. The kettle burnt his hand and he set it back on the hearth; then he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the fire.

After a while Yvonne broke the silence — speaking very low: "Are you angry?"

"Why?"

"I don't know," said the girl, with a sigh.

The silence was too strained to last, and finally Gethryn said, "Won't you sit down?"

She did so silently.

"You see I'm — I'm about to do a little cooking," he said, looking at the eggs.

The girl spoke again, still very low.

"Won't you tell me why you are angry?"

"I'm not," began Gethryn, but he sat down and glanced moodily at the girl.

"For two weeks you have not been to see me."

"You are mistaken, I have been — " he began, but stopped.

"When?"

"Saturday."

"And I was not at home?"

"And you were at home," he said grimly. "You had a caller — it was easy to hear his voice, so I did not knock."

She winced, but said quietly, "Don't you think that is rude?"

"Yes," said Gethryn, "I beg pardon."

Presently she continued: "You and — and he — are the only two men who have been in my room."

"I'm honored, I'm sure," he answered, drily.

The girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil.

"I ask your pardon again," he said; "allow me to relieve you of your waterproof."

She rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down and looked into the fire in her turn.

"It has been so long — I — I — hoped you would come."

"Whom were you with in the Luxembourg Gardens?" he suddenly broke out.

She did not misunderstand or evade the question, and Gethryn, watching her face, thought perhaps she had expected it. But she resented his tone.

"I was with a friend," she said, simply.

He came and sat down opposite her.

"It is not my business," he said, sulkily; "excuse me."

She looked at him for some moments in silence.

"It was Mr Pick," she said at length.

Gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust.

"And that — Jew was in your rooms? That Jew!"

"Yes." She sat nervously rolling and unrolling her gloves. "Why do you care?" she asked, looking into the fire.

"I don't."

"You do."

There was a pause.

"Rex," she said, very low, "will you listen?"

"Yes, I'll listen."

"He is a — a friend of my sister's. He came from her to — to — "

"To what!"

"To — borrow a little money. I distrusted him the first time he came — the time you heard him in my room — and I refused him. Saturday he stopped me in the street, and, hoping to avoid a chance of meeting — you, I walked through the park."

"And you gave him the money — I saw you!"

"I did — all I could spare."

"Is he — is your sister married?"

"No," she whispered.

"And why — " began Gethryn, angrily, "Why does that scoundrel come to beg money — " He stopped, for the girl was in evident distress.

"Ah! You know why," she said in a scarce audible voice.

The young man was silent.

"And you will come again?" she asked timidly.

No answer.

She moved toward the door.

"We were such very good friends."

Still he was silent.

"Is it au revoir?" she whispered, and waited for a moment on the threshold.

"Then it is adieu."

"Yes," he said, huskily, "that is better."

She trembled a little and leaned against the doorway.

"Adieu, mon ami — " She tried to speak, but her voice broke and ended in a sob.

Then, all at once, and neither knew just how it was, she was lying in his arms, sobbing passionately.

*

"Rex," said Yvonne, half an hour later, as she stood before the mirror arranging her disordered curls, "are you not the least little bit ashamed of yourself?"

The answer appeared to be satisfactory, but the curly head was in a more hopeless state of disorder than before, and at last the girl gave a little sigh and exclaimed, "There! I'm all rumpled, but its your fault. Will you oblige me by regarding my hair?"

"Better let it alone; I'll only rumple it some more!" he cried, ominously.

"You mustn't! I forbid you!"

"But I want to!"

"Not now, then — "

"Yes — immediately!"

"Rex — you mustn't. O, Rex — I — I — "

"What?" he laughed, holding her by her slender wrists.

She flushed scarlet and struggled to break away.

"Only one."

"No."

"One."

"None."

"Shall I let you go?"

"Yes," she said, but catching sight of his face, stopped short.

He dropped her hands with a laugh and looked at her. Then she came slowly up to him, and flushing crimson, pulled his head down to hers.

"Yvonne, do you love me? Truthfully?"

"Rex, can you ask?" Her warm little head lay against his throat, her heart beat against his, her breath fell upon his cheek, and her curls clustered among his own.

"Yvonne — Yvonne," he murmured, "I love you — once and forever."

"Once and forever," she repeated, in a half whisper.

"Forever," he said.

*

An hour later they were seated tete-a-tete at Gethryn's little table. She had not permitted him to poach the eggs, and perhaps they were better on that account.

"Bachelor habits must cease," she cried, with a little laugh, and Gethryn smiled in doubtful acquiescence.

"Do you like grilled sardines on toast?" she asked.

"I seem to," he smiled, finishing his fourth; "they are delicious — yours," he added.

"Oh, that tea!" she cried, "and not one bit of sugar. What a hopelessly careless man!"

But Gethryn jumped up, crying, "Wait a moment!" and returned triumphantly with a huge mass of rock-candy — the remains of one of Clifford's abortive attempts at "rye-and-rock."

They each broke off enough for their cups, and Gethryn, tasting his, declared the tea "delicious." Yvonne sat, chipping an egg and casting sidelong glances at Gethryn, which were always met and returned with interest.

"Yvonne, I want to tell you a secret."

"What, Rex?"

"I love you."

"Oh!"

"And you?"

"No — not at all!" cried the girl, shaking her pretty head. Presently she gave him a swift glance from beneath her drooping lashes.

"Rex?"

"What, Yvonne?"

"I want to tell you a secret."

"What, Yvonne?"

"If you eat so many sardines — "

"Oh!" cried Gethryn, half angrily, but laughing, "you must pay for that!"

"What?" she said, innocently, but jumped up and kept the table between him and herself.

"You know!" he cried, chasing her into a corner.

"We are two babies," she said, very red, following him back to the table. The pate was eaten in comparative quiet.

"Now," she said, with great dignity, setting down her glass, "behave and get me some hot water."

Gethryn meekly brought it.

"If you touch me while I am washing these dishes!"

"But let me help?"

"No, go and sit down instantly."

He fled in affected terror and ensconced himself upon the sofa. Presently he inquired, in a plaintive voice: "Have you nearly finished?"

"No," said the girl, carefully drying and arranging the quaint Egyptian tea-set, "and I won't for ages."

"But you're not going to wash all those things? The concierge does that."

"No, only the wine-glasses and the tea-set. The idea of trusting such fragile cups to a concierge! What a boy!"

But she was soon ready to dry her slender hands, and caught up a towel with a demure glance at Gethryn.

"Which do you think most of — your dogs, or me?"

"Pups."

"That parrot, or me?"

"Poll."

"The raven, or me? The cat, or me?"

"Bird and puss."

She stole over to his side and knelt down.

"Rex, if you ever tire of me — if you ever are unkind — if you ever leave me — I think I shall die."

He drew her to him. "Yvonne," he whispered, "we can't always be together."

"I know it — I'm foolish," she faltered.

"I shall not always be a student. I shall not always be in Paris, dear Yvonne."

She leaned closer to him.

"I must go back to America someday."

"And — and marry?" she whispered, chokingly.

"No — not to marry," he said, "but it is my home."

"I — I know it, Rex, but don't let us think of it. Rex," she said, some moments after, "are you like all students?"

"How do you mean?"

"Have you ever loved — before — a girl, here in Paris — like me?"

"There are none — like you."

"Answer me, Rex."

"No, I never have," he said, truthfully. Presently he added, "And you, Yvonne?"

She put her warm little hand across his mouth.

"Don't ask," she murmured.

"But I do!" he cried, struggling to see her eyes, "won't you tell me?"

She hid her face tight against his breast.

"You know I have; that is why I am alone here, in Paris."

"You loved him?"

"Yes — not as I love you."

Presently she raised her eyes to his.

"Shall I tell you all? I am like so many — so many others. When you know their story, you know mine."

He leaned down and kissed her.

"Don't tell me," he said.

But she went on.

"I was only seventeen — I am nineteen now. He was an officer at — at Chartres, where we lived. He took me to Paris."

"And left you."

"He died of the fever in Tonquin."

"When?"

"Three weeks ago."

"And you heard?"

"Tonight."

"Then he did leave you."

"Don't, Rex — he never loved me, and I — I never really loved him. I found that out."

"When did you find it out?"

"One day — you know when — in a — a cab."

"Dear Yvonne," he whispered, "can't you go back to — to your family?"

"No, Rex."

"Never?"

"I don't wish to, now. No, don't ask me why! I can't tell you. I am like all the rest — all the rest. The Paris fever is only cured by death. Don't ask me, Rex; I am content — indeed I am."

Suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused Gethryn to spring hurriedly to his feet.

"Rex!"

It was Braith's voice.

"What!" cried Gethryn, hoarsely.

There was a pause.

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

"I can't, old man; I — I'm not just up for company tonight," stammered Gethryn.

"Company be damned — are you ill?"

"No."

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry," began Gethryn, but was cut short by a gruff:

"All right; good night!" and Braith went away.

Yvonne looked inquiringly at him.

"It was nothing," he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at her feet, crying, "Oh, Yvonne — Yvonne!"

Outside the storm raged furiously.

Presently she whispered, "Rex, shall I light the candle? It is midnight."

"Yes," he said.

She slipped away, and after searching for some time, cried, "the matches are all gone, but here is a piece of paper — a letter; do you want it? I can light it over the lamp."

She held up an envelope to him.

"I can light it over the lamp," she repeated.

"What is the address?"

"It is very long; I can't read it all, only 'Florence, Italy."'

"Burn it," he said, in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him.

Presently she came over and knelt down by his side. Neither spoke or moved.

"The candle is lighted," she whispered, at last.

"And the lamp?"

"Is out."

Nine

Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him in a "petit diner a la stag," as he expressed it.

Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now wore only a mustache. For another, he had learned to like and respect a fair portion of the French students, and in consequence was respected and liked in return.

He had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the glory of the British Empire and prize ring.

He was a better sparrer than Clifford and was his equal in the use of the foils. Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone of contention that ever fell between the two.

Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played "The Widow Nolan's Goat" upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos of Rowden.

Clifford drank numerous bottles of double X with Rowden, and Rowden consumed uncounted egg-flips with Clifford. They were inseparable; in fact, the triumvirate, Clifford, Elliott and Rowden, even went so far as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but one common style in painting. But they did not make the remark to any of the triumvirate. They were very fond of each other, these precious triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain from familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived.

It was a beautiful sight, that of the three youths, when they sallied forth in company, hatted, clothed, and gloved alike, and each followed by a murderous-looking bulldog. The animals were of the brindled variety, and each was garnished with a steel spiked collar. Timid people often crossed to the other side of the street on meeting this procession.

Braith laughed at the whole performance, but secretly thought that a little of their spare energy and imagination might have been spent to advantage upon their artistic productions.

Braith was doing splendidly. His last year's picture had been hung on the line and, in spite of his number three, he had received a third class medal and had been praised — even generously — by artists and critics, including Albert Wolff. He was hard at work on a large canvas for the coming International Exhibition at Paris; he had sold a number of smaller studies, and besides had pictures well hung in Munich and in more than one gallery at home.

At last, after ten years of hard work, struggles, and disappointments, he began to enjoy a measure of success. He and Gethryn saw little of each other this winter, excepting at Julien's. That last visit to the Rue Monsieur le Prince was never mentioned between them. They were as cordial when they met as ever, but Braith did not visit his young friend any more, and Gethryn never spoke to him of Yvonne.

"Good-bye, old chap!" Braith would say when they parted, gripping Rex's hand and smiling at him. But Rex did not see Braith's face as he walked away.

Braith felt helpless. The thing he most dreaded for Rex had happened; he believed he could see the end of it all, and yet he could prevent nothing. If he should tell Rex that he was being ruined, Rex would not listen, and — who was he that he should preach to another man for the same fault by which he had wasted his own life? No, Rex would never listen to him, and he dreaded a rupture of their friendship.

Gethryn had made his debut in the Salon with a certain amount of eclat. True, he had been disappointed in his expectations of a medal, but a first mention had soothed him a little, and, what was more important, it proved to be the needed sop to his discontented aunt. But somehow or other his new picture did not progress rapidly, or in a thoroughly satisfactory manner. In bits and spots it showed a certain amount of feverish brilliancy, yes, even mature solidity; in fact, it was nowhere bad, but still it was not Gethryn and he knew that.

"Confound it!" he would mutter, standing back from his canvas; but even at such times he could hardly help wondering at his own marvelous technique.

"Technique be damned! Give me stupidity in a pupil every time, rather than cleverness," Harrington had said to one of his pupils, and the remark often rang in Gethryn's ears even when his eyes were most blinded by his own wonderful facility.

"Some fools would medal this," he thought; "but what pleasure could a medal bring me when I know how little I deserve it?"

Perhaps he was his own hardest critic, but it was certain that the old, simple honesty, the subtle purity, the almost pathetic effort to tell the truth with paint and brush, had nearly disappeared from Gethryn's canvases during the last eight months, and had given place to a fierce and almost startling brilliancy, never, perhaps, hitting, but always threatening some brutal note of discord.

Even Elise looked vaguely troubled, though she always smiled brightly at Gethryn's criticism of his own work.

"It is so very wonderful and dazzling, but — but the color seems to me — unkind."

And he would groan and answer, "Yes, yes, Elise, you're right; oh, I can never paint another like the one of last June!"

"Ah, that!" she would cry, "that was delicious — " but checking herself, she would add, "Courage, let us try again; I am not tired, indeed I am not."

Yvonne never came into the studio when Gethryn had models, but often, after the light was dim and the models had taken their leave, she would slip in, and, hanging lightly over his shoulder, her cheek against his, would stand watching the touches and retouches with which the young artist always eked out the last rays of daylight. And when his hand drooped and she could hardly distinguish his face in the gathering gloom, he would sigh and turn to her, smoothing the soft hair from her forehead, saying: "Are you happy, Yvonne?" And Yvonne always answered, "Yes, Rex, when you are."

Then he would laugh, and kiss her and tell her he was always happy with La Belle Helene, and they would stand in the gathering twilight until a gurgle from the now well-grown pups would warn them that the hour of hunger had arrived.

The triumvirate, with Thaxton, Rhodes, Carleton, and the rest, had been frequent visitors all winter at the "Menagerie," as Clifford's bad pun had named Gethryn's apartment; but, of late, other social engagements and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away. Clifford was a great favorite with Yvonne. Thaxton and Elliott she liked. Rowden she tormented, and Carleton she endured. She captured Clifford by suffering him to play his banjo to her piano. Rowden liked her because she was pretty and witty, though he never got used to her quiet little digs at his own respected and dignified person. Clifford openly avowed his attachment and spent many golden hours away from work, listening to her singing. She had been taught by a good master and her voice was pure and pliant, although as yet only half developed. The little concerts they gave their friends were really charming — with Clifford's banjo, Gethryn's guitar, Thaxton's violin, Yvonne's voice and piano. Clifford made the programs. They were profusely illustrated, and he spent a great deal of time rehearsing, writing verses, and rehashing familiar airs (he called it "composing") which would have been as well devoted to his easel.

In Rowden, Yvonne was delighted to find a cultivated musician. Clifford listened to their talk of chords and keys, went and bought a "Musical Primer" on the Quai d'Orsay, spent a wretched hour groping over it, swore softly, and closed the book forever.

But neither the triumvirate nor the others had been to the "Menagerie" for over a fortnight, when Rowden, feeling it incumbent upon him to return some of Gethryn's hospitality, issued very proper cards — indeed they were very swell cards for the Latin Quarter — for a "dinner," to be followed by a "quiet evening" at the Bal Masque at the Opera.

The triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs, "Spit," "Snap" and "Tug"; had donned their white ties and collars of awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be pleased. Although it was nominally a "stag" party, the triumvirate would as soon have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to invite Yvonne. But she had replied to Rowden's invitation by a dainty little note, ending:

and I am sure that you will understand when I say that this time I will leave you gentlemen in undisturbed possession of the evening, for I know how dearly men love to meet and behave like bears all by themselves. But I shall see you all afterward at the Opera. Au revoir then — at the Bal Masque. Y.D.

The first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. But the second was that Mademoiselle Descartes' tact had not failed her.

The triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs. Rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front.

"I think it's all right," said Elliott, noticing his look, "eh, Clifford?"

"Is there enough champagne?" asked that youth, calculating four quart bottles to each person.

Rowden groaned.

"Of course there is. What are you made of?"

"Human flesh," acknowledged the other meekly.

At eleven the guests began to arrive, welcomed by the triumvirs with great state and dignity. Rowden, looking about, missed only one — Gethryn, and he entered at the same moment.

"Just in time," said Rowden, and made the move to the table. As Gethryn sat down, he noticed that the place on Rowden's right was vacant, and before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets.

"Too bad she isn't here," said Rowden, glancing at Gethryn and then at the vacant place.

"That's awfully nice of you, Rowden," cried Gethryn, with a happy smile; "she will have a chance to thank you tonight."

He leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. As he raised his head again, his eyes met Braith's.

"Hello!" cried Braith, cordially.

Rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, "Hello!" with a feeling of relief at Braith's tone. It was always so. When they were apart for days, there weighed a cloud of constraint on Rex's mind, which Braith's first greeting always dispelled. But it gathered again in the next interval. It rose from a sullen deposit of self-reproach down deep in Gethryn's own heart. He kept it covered over; but he could not prevent the ghost-like exhalations that gathered there and showed where it was hidden.

Speeches began rather late. Elliott made one — and offered a toast to "la plus jolie demoiselle de Paris," which was drunk amid great enthusiasm and responded to by Gethryn, ending with a toast to Rowden. Rowden's response was stiff, but most correct. The same could not be said of Clifford's answer to the toast, "The struggling Artist — Heaven help him!"

Towards 1 am Mr Clifford's conversation had become incoherent. But he continued to drink toasts. He drank Yvonne's health five times, he pledged Rowden and Gethryn and everybody else he could think of, down to Mrs Gummidge and each separate kitten, and finally pledged himself. By that time he had reached the lachrymose state. Tears, it seemed, did him good. A heart-rending sob was usually the sign of reviving intelligence.

"Well," said Gethryn, buttoning his greatcoat, "I'll see you all in an hour — at the Opera."

Braith was not coming with them to the Ball, so Rex shook hands and said "Good night," and calling "Au revoir" to Rowden and the rest, ran down stairs three at a time. He hurried into the court and after spending five minutes shouting "Cordon!" succeeded in getting out of the door and into the Rue Michelet. From there he turned into the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and cutting through into the Boulevard, came to his hotel.

Yvonne was standing before the mirror, tying the hood of a white silk domino under her chin. Hearing Gethryn's key in the door, she hurriedly slipped on her little white mask and confronted him.

"Why, who is this?" cried Gethryn. "Yvonne, come and tell me who this charming stranger is!"

"You see before you the Princess Helene, Monsieur, she said, gravely bending the little masked head."

"Oh, in that case, you needn't come, Yvonne, as I have an engagement with the Princess Helene of Troy."

"But you mustn't kiss me!" she cried, hastily placing the table between herself and Gethryn; "you have not yet been presented. Oh, Rex! Don't be so — so idiotic; you spoil my dress — there — yes, only one, but don't you dare to try — Oh Rex! Now I am all in wrinkles — you — you bear!"

"Bears hug — that's a fact," he laughed. "Come, are you ready — or I'll just — "

"Don't you dare!" she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an indignant frown. She saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and made a diversion by asking what those were. He told her, and she declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with Rex's roses to the Ball.

"They shall have the preference, Monsieur," she said, teasingly. "Oh, Rex! don't — please — " she entreated.

"All right, I won't," he said, drawing her wrap around her; and Yvonne, replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs.

On the corner of the Vaugirard and the Rue de Medicis one always finds a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down the Rue de Seine to the river.

Je fais ce que sa fantaisie Veut m'ordonner, Et je puis, s'il lui faut ma vie La lui donner

sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make Gethryn keep his distance.

"Do you know it is snowing?" he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.

"Tant mieux!" cried the girl; "I shall make a snowball — a — " she opened her blue eyes impressively, "a very, very large one, and — "

"And?"

"Drop it on the head of Mr Rowden," she announced, with cheerful decision.

"I'll warn poor Rowden of your intention," he laughed, as the cab rolled smoothly up the Avenue de l'Opera, across the Boulevard des Italiens, and stopped before the glittering pile of the great Opera.

She sprang lightly to the curbstone and stood tapping her little feet against the pavement while Gethryn fumbled about for his fare.

The steps of the Opera and the Plaza were covered with figures in dominoes, blue, red or black, many grotesque and bizarre costumes, and not a few sober claw hammers. The great flare of yellow light which bathed and flooded the shifting, many-colored throng, also lent a strangely weird effect to the now heavily falling snowflakes. Carriages and cabs kept arriving in countless numbers. It was half past two, and nobody who wanted to be considered anybody thought of arriving before that hour. The people poured in a steady stream through the portals. Groups of English and American students in their irreproachable evening attire, groups of French students in someone else's doubtful evening attire, crowds of rustling silken dominoes, herds of crackling muslin dominoes, countless sad-faced Pierrots, fewer sad-faced Capuchins, now and then a slim Mephistopheles, now and then a fat, stolid Turk, 'Arry, Tom, and Billy, redolent of plum pudding and Seven Dials, Gontran, Gaston and Achille, savoring of brasseries and the Sorbonne. And then, from the carriages and fiacres: Mademoiselle Patchouli and good old Monsieur Bonvin, Mademoiselle Nitouche and bad young Monsieur de Sacrebleu, Mademoiselle Moineau and Don Caesar Imberbe; and the pink silk domino of "La Pataude" — mais n'importe!

Allons, Messieurs, Mesdames, to the cloak room — to the foyer! To the escalier! or you, Madame la Comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your crumpled domino; as for "La Pataude," she is going to dance tonight.

Gethryn, with Yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined aisle which led to the floor.

"Do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?" he asked, leading her to the doorway.

Yvonne's little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the dazzling spectacle.

"Come, hurry — let us go to the box!" she whispered, dragging Gethryn after her up the stairway.

He followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they found the door of their lodge and slipped in.

Gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses.

"Take these, Yvonne," he said, handing them to her while he adjusted her own tiny gold ones.

Yvonne's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.

At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred.

But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the "half-world."

The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysees, and the Parc Monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah, well — now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks — alas! few emergencies.

And you over there — you of the "American Colony," who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting — yes, but why should you come? American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else — why do you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe.

Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.

"But I can't make out anyone at all," she said; "it's all a great, sparkling sea of color."

"Try the field glasses," replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek.

Presently she cried out, "Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden, and I think Mr Clifford — but I hope not."

He leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass.

"It's Clifford, sure enough," he muttered; "what on earth induces him to dance in that set?"

It was Clifford.

At that moment he was addressing Elliott in pleading, though hazy, phrases.

"Come 'long, Elliott, don't be so — so uncomf't'ble 'n' p'tic'lar! W't's use of be'ng shnobbish?" he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner, a pigeon-toed ballet girl. But Elliott only laughed and said:

"No; waltzes are all I care for. No quadrille for me — "

The crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and Clifford, turning and bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-a-vis, began to perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious astonishment. The door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the hilarious couples in the middle.

But Clifford's set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience, who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a hired one; and when the last thundering chords of Offenbach's "March into Hell" scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, Clifford reeled heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the lap of Mademoiselle Nitouche, who had crept in there with the Baron Silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan.

Mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the Baron did, and when she boxed Clifford's ears he thought it funnier still.

Rowden and Elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of flat-footed Watteau Shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance; and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder air, restored Mr Clifford to his usual spirits.

"You're not a beauty, you know," said Rowden, looking at Clifford's hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; "you're certainly no beauty, but I think you're all right now — don't you, Elliott? "

"Certainly," laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone Clifford, who immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a "bang" of wonderful seductiveness.

In ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. They passed Thaxton and Rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm, were trying to persuade Bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might have been the Mother Superior or possibly a resuscitated 14th century abbess.

"No," he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant abbess, "I can't go that; upon my word, don't ask me, fellows — I — I can't."

"Oh, come," urged Rhodes, "what's the odds?"

"You can take her and I'll take yours," began the wily little man, but neither Rhodes nor Thaxton waited to argue longer.

"No catacombs for me," growled Bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns, but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like felicity of expression.

"Glad to see you — indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you're looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes."

"Rex ought to be here by this time," said Rowden; "look in the boxes on that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this."

"No need," cried Elliott, "I see him with a white domino there in the second tier. Look! he's waving his hand to us and so is the domino."

"Come along," said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, "I'll find them in a moment. Let me see," — a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors — "let me see, seventh box, second tier — here we are," he added, rapping loudly.

Yvonne ran and opened the door.

"Bon soir, Messieurs," she said, with a demure curtsy.

Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with Gethryn.

"How is it on the floor?" asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came forward to the edge of the box. "I want to take Yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn't too crowded."

"Oh, it's pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour," replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.

"We saw you dancing, Mr Clifford," observed Yvonne, with a wicked glance at him from under her mask.

Clifford blushed.

"I — I don't make an ass of myself but once a year, you know," he said, with a deprecatory look at Elliott.

"Oh," murmured the latter, doubtfully, "glad to hear it."

Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.

Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets.

"Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!"

Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet.

"A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!" he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet.

A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house.

Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.

"What audacity!" she murmured.

Mademoiselle Goujon smiled at the Baron Silberstein.

"Tiens!" she cried, "the gayety has begun, I hope."

Little Miss Ducely whispered to Lieutenant Faucon:

"Those are American students," she sighed; "how jolly they seem to be, especially Mr Clifford! I wonder if she is so pretty!"

Half a dozen riotous Frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet and waved their goblets at Clifford.

"A la plus jolie femme du monde!" they roared.

Clifford seized another glass and filled it.

"She is here!" he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. But Gethryn pulled him down.

"That's too dangerous," he laughed; "you could easily fall."

"Oh, pshaw!" cried Clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the opposite box.

Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn's arm.

"Don't let him have any more," she whispered.

"Give us the goblet!" yelled the Frenchmen.

"Le voila!" shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.

Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down.

"A rose! A rose!" cried the maskers below; "a rose from the most charming demoiselle in Paris!"

She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd.

There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.

"None for me?" sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.

She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over Gethryn's chair.

"You destructive little wretch!" he laughed, "this is not the season for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I'm not jealous."

"Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you," she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast.

And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing.

"I would so like to go onto the floor," she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; "don't you think we might — just for a minute, Mr Rowden?" she pleaded. "I don't mind a crowd — indeed I don't, and I am masked so perfectly."

"What's the harm, Rex?" said Rowden; "she is well masked."

"And when we return it will be time for supper, won't it?"

"Yes, I should think so!" murmured Clifford.

"Where do we go then?"

"Maison Doree."

"Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!" cried Gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion — an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul! — and a pew-holder in the American Church.

"My love," said the frisky one, "who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?"

"I don't know," muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, "I don't know, but I wish I did."

And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.

"What are they looking at?" whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to Gethryn's arm.

"Only a quadrille — 'La Pataude' is dancing. Do you want to see it?"

She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which 'La Pataude' and 'Grille d'Egout' were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.

"Brava! Bis!" cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; "vive La Pataude!"

For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper.

The crowd roared again. "Brava! Brava, La Pataude!"

Yvonne turned away.

"I don't like it. I don't find it amusing," she said, faintly.

Gethryn's hand closed on hers.

"Nor I," he said.

"But you and your friends used to go to the students' ball at 'Bullier's,"' she began, a little reproachfully.

"Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there — at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at Carnival time."

"But — Mr Clifford knows all the girls at 'Bullier's.' Do — do you?"

"Some."

"How many?" she said, pettishly.

"None — now."

A pause. Yvonne was looking down.

"See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven't been to the Bullier since — since last May."

She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask.

"Why, Yvonne!" he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz.

"Don't speak to me, Rex — but dance! Dance!"

They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash.

"Tired?" he asked, still holding her.

She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry.

"Oh! I'm caught — there, on your coat!"

He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk.

"Where is it? Oh! Here!"

And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis.

"You see," he said, "it will always draw me to you."

But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm.

When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel.

"Old dog thinks I know him," he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in. Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself.

"Time for supper, you know," suggested Clifford.

Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro.

"Who are those people in the next box?" she asked him. "They do make such a noise."

"There are only two, both masked."

"But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the box. I'm going to take a peep," she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing.

"Don't; I wouldn't — " began Gethryn, but he was too late.

Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale.

"My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?"

"Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away — home — "

Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice called, "Yvonne! Yvonne!"

Clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress, very decolletee, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly scented air.

Yvonne leaned heavily on Gethryn's shoulder; the woman stopped in front of them.

"Ah! here you are, then!"

Yvonne's face was ghastly.

"Nina," she whispered, "why did you come?"

"Because I wanted to make you a little surprise," sneered the woman; "a pleasant little surprise. We love each other enough, I hope." She stamped her foot.

"Go," said Yvonne, looking half dead.

"Go!" mimicked the other. "But certainly! Only first you must introduce me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you."

"You will leave the box," said Gethryn, in a low voice, holding open the door.

The woman turned on him. She was evidently in a prostitute's tantrum of malicious deviltry. Presently she would begin to lash herself into a wild rage.

"Ah! this is the one!" she sneered, and raising her voice, she called, "Mannie, Mannie, come in here, quick!"

A sidling step approached from the next box, and the face of Mr Emanuel Pick appeared at the door.

"This is the one," cried the woman, shrilly. "Isn't he pretty?"

Mr Pick looked insolently at Gethryn and opened his mouth, but he did not say anything, for Rex took him by the throat and kicked him headlong into his own box. Then he locked the door, and taking out the key, returned and presented it to the woman.

"Follow him!" he said, and quietly, but forcibly, urged her toward the lobby.

"Mannie! Mannie!" she shrieked, in a voice choked by rage and dissipation, "come and kill him! He's insulting me!"

Getting no response, she began to pour forth shriek upon shriek, mingled with oaths and ravings. "I shall speak to my sister! Who dares prevent me from speaking to my sister! You — " she glared at Yvonne and ground her teeth. "You, the good one. You! the mother's pet! Ran away from home! Took up with an English hog!"

Yvonne sprang to her feet again.

"Leave the box," she gasped.

"Ha! ha! Mais oui! leave the box! and let her dance while her mother lies dying!"

Yvonne gave a cry.

"Ah! Ah!" said her sister, suddenly speaking very slowly, nodding at every word. "Ah! Ah! go back to your room and see what is there — in the room of your lover — the little letter from Vernon. She wants you. She wants you. That is because you are so good. She does not want me. No, it is you who must come to see her die. I — I dance at the Carnival!"

Then, suddenly turning on Gethryn with a devilish grin, "You! tell your mistress her mother is dying!" She laughed hatefully, but preserved her pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round and made an insulting gesture to Gethryn.

"You! I will remember you!"

The door slammed and a key rattled in the next box.

Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses. Clifford stood holding her crushed and splintered fan. He looked at Elliott, who looked gloomily back at him, as Braith entered hurriedly.

"What's the matter? I saw something was wrong from the floor. Rex ill?"

"Ill at ease," said Clifford, grimly. "There's a sister turned up. A devil of a sister."

Braith spoke very low. "Yvonne's sister?"

"Yes, a she-devil."

"Did you hear her name?"

"Name's Nina."

Braith went quietly out again. Passing blindly down the lobby, he ran against Mr Bulfinch. Mr Bulfinch was in charge of a policeman.

"Hello, Braith!" he called, hilariously.

Braith was going on with a curt nod when the other man added:

"I've taken it out of Pick," and he stopped short. "I got my two hundred francs worth," the artist of the London Mirror proceeded, "and now I shall feel bound to return you yours — the first time I have it," he ended, vaguely.

Braith made an impatient gesture.

"Are you under arrest?"

"Yes, I am. He couldn't help it," smiling agreeably at the Sergeant de Ville. "He saw me hit him."

The policeman looked stolid.

"But what excuse?" began Braith.

"Oh! none! Pick just passed me, and I felt as if I couldn't stand it any longer, so I pitched in."

"Well, and now you're in for fine and imprisonment."

"I suppose so," said Bulfinch, beaming.

"Have you any money with you?"

"No, unless I have some in your pocket?" said the little man, with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado that touched Braith, who saw what the confession cost him.

"Lots!" said he, cordially. "But first let us try what we can do with Bobby. Do you ever drink a petit verre, Monsieur le Sergeant de Ville?" with a winning smile to the wooden policeman.

The latter looked at the floor.

"No," said he.

"Never?"

"Never!"

"Well, I was only thinking that over on the Corner of the Rue Taitbout one finds excellent wine at twenty francs."

The officer now gazed dreamily at the ceiling.

"Mine costs forty," he said.

And a few minutes later the faithful fellow stood in front of the Opera house quite alone.

Ten

The cab rolled slowly over the Pont au Change, and the wretched horse fell into a walk as he painfully toiled up the hill of St Michel. Yvonne lay back in the corner; covered with all her own wraps and Gethryn's overcoat, she shivered.

"Poor little Yvonne!" was all he said as he leaned over now and then to draw the cloak more closely around her. Not a sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wheezing of the old horse broke the silence. The streets were white and deserted. A few ragged flakes fell from the black vault above, or were shaken down from the crusted branches.

The cab stopped with a jolt. Yvonne was trembling as Rex lifted her to the ground, and he hurried her into the house, up the black stairway and into their cold room.

When he had a fire blazing in the grate, he looked around. She was kneeling on the floor beside a candle she had lighted, and her tears were pouring down upon the page of an open letter. Rex stepped over and touched her.

"Come to the fire." He raised her gently, but she could not stand, and he carried her in his arms to the great soft chair before the grate. Then he knelt down and warmed her icy hands in his own. After a while he moved her chair back, and drawing off her dainty white slippers, wrapped her feet in the fur that lay heaped on the hearth. Then he unfastened the cloak and the domino, and rolling her gloves from elbow to wrist, slipped them over the helpless little hands. The firelight glanced and glowed on her throat and bosom, tingeing their marble with opalescent lights, and searching the deep shadows under her long lashes. It reached her hair, touching here and there a soft, dark wave, and falling aslant the knots of ribbon on her bare shoulders, tipped them with points of white fire.

"Is it so bad, dearest Yvonne?"

"Yes."

"Then you must go?"

"Oh, yes!"

"When?"

"At daylight."

Gethryn rose and went toward the door; he hesitated, came back and kissed her once on the forehead. When the door closed on him she wept as if her heart would break, hiding her head in her arms. He found her lying so when he returned, and, throwing down her traveling bag and rugs, he knelt and took her to his breast, kissing her again and again on the forehead. At last he had to speak.

"I have packed the things you will need most and will send the rest. It is getting light, dearest; you have to change your dress, you know."

She roused herself and sat up, looking desolately about her.

"Forever!" she whispered.

"No! No!" cried Gethryn.

"Ah! oui, mon ami!"

Gethryn went and stood by the window. The bedroom door was closed.

Day was breaking. He opened the window and looked into the white street. Lamps burned down there with a sickly yellow; a faint light showed behind the barred windows of the old gray barracks. One or two stiff sparrows hopped silently about the gutters, flying up hurriedly when the frost-covered sentinel stamped his boots before the barracks gate. Now and then a half-starved workman limped past, his sabots echoing on the frozen pavement. A hooded and caped policeman, a red-faced cabman stamping beside his sleepy horse — the street was empty but for them.

It grew lighter. The top of St Sulpice burned crimson. Far off a bugle fluttered, and then came the tramp of the morning guard mount. They came stumbling across the stony court and leaned on their rifles while one of them presented arms and received the word from the sentry. Little by little people began to creep up and down the sidewalks, and the noise of wooden shutters announced another day of toil begun. The point of the Luxembourg Palace struck fire as the ghastly gas-lamps faded and went out. Suddenly the great bell of St Sulpice clashed the hour — Eight o'clock!

Again a bugle blew sharply from the barracks, and a troop of cavalry danced and pawed through the gate, clattering away down the Rue de Seine.

Gethryn shut the window and turned into the room. Yvonne stood before the dying embers. He went to her, almost timidly. Neither spoke. At last she took up her satchel and wrap.

"It is time," she whispered. "Let us go."

He clasped her once in his arms; she laid her cheek against his.

*

The train left Montparnasse station at nine. There was hardly anyone in the waiting room. The Guard flung back the grating.

"Vernon, par Chartres?" asked Gethryn.

"Vernon — Moulins — Chartres — direct!" shouted the Guard, and stamped off down the platform.

Gethryn showed his ticket which admitted him to the platform, and they walked slowly down the line of dismal-looking cars.

"This one?" and he opened a door.

She stood watching the hissing and panting engine, while Gethryn climbed in and placed her bags and rugs in a window corner. The car smelt damp and musty, and he stepped out with a choking sensation in his chest. A train man came along, closing doors with a slam.

"All aboard — ladies — gentlemen — voyageurs?" he growled, as if to himself or some familiar spirit, and jerked a sullen clang from the station bell. The engine panted impatiently.

Rex struggled against the constraint that seemed to be dividing them.

"Yvonne, you will write?"

"I don't know!"

"You don't know! Yvonne!"

"I know nothing except that I am wicked, and my mother is dying!" She said it in low, even tones, looking away from him.

The gong struck again, with a startling clash.

The engine shrieked; a cloud of steam rose from under the wheels. Rex hurried her into the carriage; there was no one else there. Suddenly she threw herself into his arms.

"Oh! I love you! I love you! One kiss, no; no; on the lips. Good-bye, my own Rex!"

"You will come again?" he said, crushing her to him.

Her eyes looked into his.

"I will come. I love you! Be true to me, Rex. I will come back."

Her lover could not speak. Doors slamming, and an impatient voice — "Descendez donc, M'sieu!" — roused him; he sprang from the carriage, and the train rolled slowly out of the smoke-filled station.

How heavy the smoke was! Gethryn could hardly breathe — hardly see. He walked away and out into the street. The city was only half awake even yet. After, as it seemed, a long time, he found himself looking at a clock which said a quarter past ten. The winter sunshine slanted now on roof and pane, flooding the western side of the shabby boulevard, dappling the snow with yellow patches. He had stopped in the chilly shadow of a gateway and was looking vacantly about. He saw the sunshine across the street and shivered where he was, and yet he did not leave the shadow. He stood and watched the sparrows taking bold little baths in the puddles of melted snow water. They seemed to enjoy the sunshine, but it was cold in the shade, cold and damp — and the air was hard to breathe. A policeman sauntered by and eyed him curiously. Rex's face was haggard and pinched. Why had he stood there in the cold for half an hour, without ever changing his weight from one foot to the other?

The policeman spoke at last, civilly:

"Monsieur!"

Gethryn turned his head.

"Is it that Monsieur seeks the train?" he asked, saluting.

Rex looked up. He had wandered back to the station. He lifted his hat and answered with the politeness dear to French officials.

"Merci, Monsieur!" It made him cough to speak, and he moved on slowly.

Gethryn would not go home yet. He wanted to be where there was plenty of cool air, and yet he shivered. He drew a deep breath which ended in a pain. How cold the air must be — to pain the chest like that! And yet, there were women wheeling handcarts full of yellow crocus buds about. He stopped and bought some for Yvonne.

"She will like them," he thought. "Ah!" — he turned away, leaving flowers and money. The old flower-woman crossed herself.

No — he would not go home just yet. The sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the Square.

There was a crowd on the Pont au Change. He did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. He stopped and looked over too. The sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. Some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. Another boat followed close. A voice close by Gethryn cried, angrily:

"Dieu! who are you shoving?"

Rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, "Vive le cadavre!"

"Chut!" said another voice.

"Vive la Mort! Vive la Morgue!" screamed the wretched little creature.

A policeman boxed his ears and pulled him back. The crowd laughed. The voice that had cried, "Chut!" said lower, "What a little devil, that Rigaud!"

Rex moved slowly on.

In the Court of the Louvre were people enough and to spare. Some of them bowed to him; several called him to turn and join them. He lifted his hat to them all, as if he knew them, but passed on without recognizing a soul. The broad pavements were warm and wet, but the air must have been sharp to hurt his chest so. The great pigeons of the Louvre brushed by him. It seemed as if he felt the beat of their wings on his brains. A shabby-looking fellow asked him for a sou — and, taking the coin Rex gave him, shuffled off in a hurry; a dog followed him, he stooped and patted it; a horse fell, he went into the street and helped to raise it. He said to a man standing by that the harness was too heavy — and the man, looking after him as he walked away, told a friend that there was another crazy foreigner.

Soon after this he found himself on the Quai again, and the sun was sinking behind the dome of the Invalides. He decided to go home. He wanted to get warm, and yet it seemed as if the air of a room would stifle him. However, once more he crossed the Seine, and as he turned in at his own gate he met Clifford, who said something, but Rex pushed past without trying to understand what it was.

He climbed the dreary old stairs and came to his silent studio. He sat down by the fireless hearth and gazed at a long, slender glove among the ashes. At his feet her little white satin slippers lay half hidden in the long white fur of the rug.

He felt giddy and weak, and that hard pain in his chest left him no peace. He rose and went into the bedroom. Her ball dress lay where she had thrown it. He flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the rustling silk. A faint odor of violets pervaded it. He thought of the bouquet that had been placed for her at the dinner. Then the flowers reminded him of last summer. He lived over again their gay life — their excursions to Meudon, Sceaux, Versailles with its warm meadows, and cool, dark forests; Fontainebleau, where they lunched under the trees; St Cloud — Oh! he remembered their little quarrel there, and how they made it up on the boat at Suresnes afterward.

He rose excitedly and went back into the studio; his cheeks were aflame and his breath came sharp and hard. In a corner, with its face to the wall, stood an old, unfinished portrait of Yvonne, begun after one of those idyllic summer days.

When Braith walked in, after three times knocking, he found Gethryn painting feverishly by the last glimmer of daylight on this portrait. The room was full of shadows, and while they spoke it grew quite dark.

That night Braith sat by his side and listened to his incoherent talk, and Dr White came and said "Pleuro-pneumonia" was what ailed him. Braith had his traps fetched from his own place and settled down to nurse him.

Eleven

C arnival was over. February had passed, like January, for most of the fellows, in a bad dream of unpaid bills. March was going in much the same way. This is the best account Clifford, Elliott and Rowden could have given of it. Thaxton and Rhodes were working. Carleton was engaged to a new pretty girl — the sixth or seventh.

Satan found the time passing delightfully. There was no one at present to restrain him when he worried Mrs Gummidge. The tabby daily grew thinner and sadder-eyed. The parrot grew daily more blase. He sneered more and more bitterly, and his eyelid, when closed, struck a chill to the soul of the raven.

At first the pups were unhappy. They missed their master. But they were young, and flies were getting plentiful in the studio.

For Braith the nights and the days seemed to wind themselves in an endless chain about Rex's sickbed. But when March had come and gone Rex was out of danger, and Braith began to paint again on his belated picture. It was too late, now, for the Salon; but he wanted to finish it all the same.

One day, early in April, he came back to Gethryn after an unusually long absence at his own studio.

Rex was up and trying to dress. He turned a peaked face toward his friend. His eyes were two great hollows, and when he smiled and spoke, in answer to Braith's angry exclamation, his jaws worked visibly.

"Keep cool, old chap!" he said, in the ghost of a voice.

"What are you getting up for, all alone?"

"Had to — tired of the bed. Try it yourself — six weeks!"

"You want to go back there and never quit it alive — that's what you want," said Braith, nervously.

"Don't, either. Come and button this collar and stop swearing."

"I suppose you're going back to Julien's the day after tomorrow," said Braith, sarcastically, after Rex was dressed and had been helped to the lounge in the studio.

"No," said he, "I'm going to Arcachon tomorrow."

"Arca—- twenty thousand thunders!"

"Not at all," smiled Rex — a feeble, willful smile.

Braith sat down and drew his chair beside Gethryn.

"Wait a while, Rex."

"I can't get well here, you know."

"But you can get a bit stronger before you start on such a journey."

"I thought the doctor told you the sooner I went south the better."

That was true; Braith was silent a while.

At last he said, "I have all the money you will want till your own comes, you know, and I can get you ready by the end of this week, if you will go."

Rex was no baby, but his voice shook when he answered.

"Dear old, kind, unselfish friend! I'd almost rather remain poor, and let you keep on taking care of me, but — see here — " and he handed him a letter. "That came this morning, after you left."

Braith read it eagerly, and looked up with a brighter face than he had worn for many a day.

"By Jove!" he said. "By Jupiter!"

Rex smiled sadly at his enthusiasm.

"This means health, and a future, and — everything to you, Rex!"

"Health and wealth, and happiness," said Gethryn bitterly.

"Yes, you ungrateful young reprobate — that's exactly what it means. Go to your Arcachon, by all means, since you've got a fortune to go on — I say — you — you didn't know your aunt very well, did you? You're not cut up much?"

"I never saw her half a dozen times in my whole life. But she's been generous to me, poor old lady!"

"I should think so. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a nice sum for a young fellow to find in his pocket all on a sudden. And now — you want to go away and get well, and come back presently and begin where you left off — a year ago. Is that it?"

"That is it. I shall never get well here, and I mean to get well if I can," — he paused, and hesitated. "That was the only letter in my box this morning."

Braith did not answer.

"It is nearly two months now," continued Rex, in a low voice.

"What are your plans?" interrupted Braith, brusquely.

Rex flushed.

"I'm going first" — he answered rather drily, "to Arcachon. You see by the letter my aunt died in Florence. Of course I've got to go and measure out a lot of Italian red tape before I can get the money. It seems to me the sooner I can get into the pine air and the sea breezes at Arcachon, the better chance I have of being fit to push on to Florence, via the Riviera, before the summer heat."

"And then?"

"I don't know."

"You will come back?"

"When I am cured."

There was a long silence. At last Gethryn put a thin hand on Braith's shoulder and looked him lovingly in the face.

"You know, and I know, how little I have ever done to deserve your goodness, to show my gratitude and — and love for you. But if I ever come back I will prove to you — "

Braith could not answer, and did not try to. He sat and looked at the floor, the sad lines about his mouth deeply marked, his throat moving once or twice as he swallowed the lump of grief that kept rising.

After a while he muttered something about its being time for Rex's supper and got up and fussed about with a spirit lamp and broths and jellies, more like Rex's mother than a rough young bachelor. In the midst of his work there came a shower of blows on the studio door and Clifford, Rowden and Elliott trooped in without more ado.

They set up a chorus of delighted yells at seeing Rex dressed and on the studio lounge. But Braith suppressed them promptly.

"Don't you know any better than that?" he growled. "What did you come for, anyway? It's Rex's supper time."

"We came, Papa," said Clifford, "to tell Rex that I have reformed. We wanted him to know it as soon as we did ourselves."

"Ah! he's a changed man! He's worked all day at Julien's for a week past," cried Elliott and Rowden together.

"And my evenings?" prompted Clifford sweetly.

"Are devoted to writing letters home!" chanted the chorus.

"Get out!" was all Rex answered, but his face brightened at the three bad boys standing in a row with their hats all held politely against their stomachs. He had not meant to tell them, dreading the fatigue of explanations, but by an impulse he held out his hand to them.

"I say, you fellows, shake hands! I'm going off tomorrow."

Their surprise having been more or less noisily and profusely expressed, Braith stepped decidedly in between them and his patient, satisfied their curiosity, and gently signified that it was time to go.

He only permitted one shake apiece, foiling all Clifford's rebellious attempts to dodge around him and embrace Gethryn. But Rex was lying back by this time, tired out, and he was glad when Braith closed the studio door. It flew open the next minute and an envelope came spinning across to Rex.

"Letter in your box, Reggy — good-bye, old chap!" said Clifford's voice.

The door did not quite close again and the voices and steps of his departing friends came echoing back as Braith raised a black-edged letter from the floor. It bore the postmark: Vernon.

Twelve

R ound about the narrow valley which is cut by the rapid Trauerbach, Bavarian mountains tower, their well timbered flanks scattered here and there with rough slides, or opening out in long green alms, and here at evening one may sometimes see a spot of yellow moving along the bed of a half dry mountain torrent.

Miss Ruth Dene stood in front of the Forester's lodge at Trauerbach one evening at sunset, and watched such a spot on the almost perpendicular slope that rose opposite, high above her head. Some Jaegers and the Forester were looking, too.

"My glass, Federl! Ja! 's ist'n gams!"

"Gems?" inquired Miss Dene, excited by her first view of a chamois.

"Ja! 'n Gams," said the Forester, sticking to his dialect.

The sun was setting behind the Red Peak, his last rays pouring into the valley. They fell on rock and alm, on pine and beech, and turned the silver Trauerbach to molten gold.

Mr Isidor Blumenthal, sitting at a table under one of the windows, drinking beer, beheld this phenomenon, and putting down his quart measure, he glared at the waste of precious metal. Then he lighted the stump of a cigar; then he looked at his watch, and it being almost supper time, he went in to secure the best place. He liked being early at table; he liked the first cut of the meats, hot and fat; he loved plenty of gravy. While waiting to be served he could count the antlers on the walls and estimate "how much they would fetch by an antiquar," as he said to himself. There was nothing else marketable in the large bare room, full of deal tables and furnished with benches built against the wall. But he could pick his teeth demonstratively — toothpicks were not charged in the bill — and he could lean back on two legs of his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and stare through the windows at Miss Dene.

The Herr Foerster and the two Jaegers had gone away. Miss Dene stood now with her slender hands clasped easily behind her, a Tam O'Shanter shading her sweet face. She was tall, and so far as Mr Blumenthal had ever seen, extremely grave for her years. But Mr Blumenthal's opportunities of observing Miss Dene had been limited.

The "gams" had disappeared. Miss Dene was looking down the road that leads to Schicksalsee. There was not much visible there except a whirl of dust raised by the sudden evening wind.

Sometimes it was swept away for a moment; then she saw a weather-beaten bridge and a bend in the road where it disappeared among the noble firs of a Bavarian forest.

The sun sank and left the Trauerbach a stream of molten lead. The shadows crept up to the Jaeger's hut and then to the little chapel above that. Gusts of whistling martins swept by.

A silk-lined, Paris-made wool dress rustled close beside her, and she put out one of the slender hands without turning her head.

"Mother, dear," said she, as a little silver-haired old lady took it and came and leaned against her tall girl's shoulder, "haven't we had enough of the 'Foerst-haus zu Trauerbach?"'

"Not until a certain girl, who danced away her color at Cannes, begins to bloom again."

Ruth shrugged, and then laughed. "At least it isn't so — so indigestible as Munich."

"Oh! Absurd! Speaking of digestion, come to your Schmarn und Reh-braten. Supper is ready."

Mother and daughter walked into the dingy "Stube" and took their seats at the Forester's table.

Mr Blumenthal's efforts had not secured him a place there after all; Anna, the capable niece of the Frau Foerster, having set down a large foot, clad in a thick white stocking and a carpet slipper, to the effect that there was only room for the Herr Foerster's family and the Americans.

"I also am an American!" cried Mr Blumenthal in Hebrew-German. Nevertheless, when Ruth and her mother came in he bowed affably to them from the nearest end of the next table.

"Mamma," said Ruth, very low, "I hope I'm not going to begin being difficult, but do you know, that is really an odious man?"

"Yes, I do know," laughed her easy-tempered mother, "but what is that to us?"

Mr Blumenthal was reveling in hot fat. After he had bowed and smiled greasily, he tucked his napkin tighter under his chin and fell once more upon the gravy. He sopped his bread in it and scooped it up with his knife. But after there was no more gravy he wished to converse. He scrubbed his lips with one end of the napkin and called across to Ruth, who shrank behind her mother: "Vell, Miss Dene, you have today a shammy seen, not?"

Ruth kept out of sight, but Mrs Dene nodded, good-naturedly.

"Ja! soh! and haf you auch dose leetle deer mit der mamma seen? I haf myself such leetle deer myself many times shoot, me and my neffe. But not here. It is not permitted." No one answered. Ruth asked Anna for the salt.

"My neffe, he eats such lots of salt — " began Mr Blumenthal.

"Herr Foerster," interrupted Mrs Dene — "Is the room ready for our friend who is coming this evening?"

"Your vriendt, he is from New York?"

"Ja, ja, Gnaedige Frau!" said the Forester, hastily.

"I haf a broader in New York. Blumenthal and Cohen, you know dem, yes?"

Mrs Dene and her daughter rose and went quietly out into the porch, while the Frau Foerster, with cold, round gray eyes and a tight mouth, was whispering to her frowning spouse that it was none of his business, and why get himself into trouble? Besides, Mrs Dene's Herr Gemahl, meaning the absent colonel, would come back in a day or two; let him attend to Mr Blumenthal.

Outside, under the windows, were long benches set against the house with tables before them. One was crowded with students who had come from everywhere on the foot-tours dear to Germans.

Their long sticks, great bundles, tin botanizing boxes, and sketching tools lay in untidy heaps; their stone krugs were foaming with beer, and their mouths were full of black bread and cheese.

Underneath the other window was the Jaeger's table. There they sat, gossiping as usual with the Forester's helpers, a herdsman or two, some woodcutters on their way into or out from the forest, and a pair of smart revenue officers from the Tyrol border, close by.

Ruth said to the nearest Jaeger in passing:

"Herr Loisl, will you play for us?"

"But certainly, gracious Fraulein! Shall I bring my zither to the table under the beech tree?"

"Please do!"

Miss Dene was a great favorite with the big blond Jaegers.

"Ja freili! will I play for the gracious Fraulein!" said Loisl, and cut slices with his hunting knife from a large white radish and ate them with black bread, shining good-humor from the tip of the black-cock feather on his old green felt hat to his bare, bronzed knees and his hobnailed shoes.

At the table under the beech trees were two more great fellows in gray and green. They rose promptly and were moving away; Mrs Dene begged them to remain, and they sat down again, diffidently, but with dignity.

"Herr Sepp," said Ruth, smiling a little mischievously, "how is this? Herr Federl shot a stag of eight this morning, and I hear that yesterday you missed a Reh-bock!"

Sepp reddened, and laughed. "Only wait, gracious Fraulein, next week it is my turn on the Red Peak."

"Ach, ja! Sepp knows the springs where the deer drink," said Federl.

"And you never took us there!" cried Ruth, reproachfully. "I would give anything to see the deer come and drink at sundown."

Sepp felt his good breeding under challenge. "If the gracious Frau permits," with a gentlemanly bow to Mrs Dene, "and the ladies care to come — but the way is hard — "

"You couldn't go, dearest," murmured Ruth to her mother, "but when papa comes back — "

"Your father will be delighted to take you wherever there is a probability of breaking both your necks, my dear," said Mrs Dene.

"Griffin!" said Ruth, giving her hand a loving little squeeze under the table.

Loisl came up with his zither and they all made way before him. Anna placed a small lantern on the table and the light fell on the handsome bearded Jaeger's face as he leaned lovingly above his instrument.

The incurable "Sehnsucht" of humanity found not its only expression in that great Symphony where "all the mightier strings assembling, fell a trembling." Ruth heard it as she leaned back in the deep shade and listened to those silvery melodies and chords of wonderful purity, coaxed from the little zither by Loisl's strong, rough hand, with its tender touch. To all the airs he played her memory supplied the words. Sometimes a Sennerin was watching from the Alm for her lover's visit in the evening. Sometimes the hunter said farewell as he sprang down the mountainside. Once tears came into Ruth's eyes as the simple tune recalled how a maiden who died and went to Heaven told her lover at parting:

"When you come after me I shall know you by my ring which you will wear, and me you will know by your rose that rests on my heart."

Loisl had stopped playing and was tuning a little, idly sounding chords of penetrating sweetness. There came a noise of jolting and jingling from the road below.

Mrs Dene spoke softly to Ruth. "That is the Mail; it is time he was here." Ruth assented absently. She cared at that moment more for hearing a new folk-song than for the coming of her old playmate.

Rapid wheels approaching from the same direction overtook and passed the "Post" and stopped below. Mrs Dene rose, drawing Ruth with her. The three tall Jaegers rose too, touching their hats. Thanking them all, with a special compliment to Loisl, the ladies went and stood by some stone steps which lead from the road to the Foerst-haus, just as a young fellow, proceeding up them two at a time, arrived at the top, and taking Mrs Dene's hand began to kiss it affectionately.

"At last!" she cried, "and the very same boy! after four years! Ruth!" Ruth gave one hand and Reginald Gethryn took two, releasing one the next moment to put his arm around the little old lady, and so he led them both into the house, more at home already than they were.

"Shall we begin to talk about how we are not one bit changed, only a little older, first, or about your supper?" said Mrs Dene.

"Oh! supper, please!" said Rex, of the sun-browned face and laughing eyes. Smiling Anna, standing by, understood, aided by a hint from Ruth of "Schmarn und Reh-braten" — and clattered away to fetch the never-changing venison and fried batter, with which, and Schicksalsee beer, the Frau Foerster sustained her guests the year round, from "Georgi" to "Michaeli" and from "Michaeli" to "Georgi," reasoning that what she liked was good enough for them. The shapeless cook was ladling out dumplings, which she called "Nudel," into some soup for a Munich opera singer, who had just arrived by the stage. Anna confided to her that this was a "feiner Herr," and must be served accordingly. The kind Herr Foerster came up to greet his guest. Mrs Dene introduced him as Mr Gethryn, of New York. At this Mr Blumenthal bounced forward from a corner where he had been spying and shook hands hilariously. "Vell! and how it goes!" he cried. Rex saw Ruth's face as she turned away, and stepping to her side, he whispered, "Friend of yours?" The teasing tone woke a thousand memories of their boy and girl days, and Ruth's young lady reserve had changed to the frank camaraderie of former times when she shook her head at him, laughing, as he looked back at them from the stairs, up which he was following Grethi and his portmanteau to the room prepared for him.

Half an hour later Mrs Dene and her daughter were looking with approval at Rex and his hearty enjoyment of the Frau Foerster's fare. The cook, on learning that this was a "feiner Herr," had added trout to the regulation dishes; and although she was convinced that the only proper way to cook them was "blau gesotten" — meaning boiled to a livid bluish white — she had learned American tastes from the Denes and sent them in to Gethryn beautifully brown and crisp.

Rex turned one over critically. "Good little fish. Who is the angler?"

"Oh! angler! They were caught with bait," said Ruth, wrinkling her nose.

Rex gave her a quick look. "I suppose you have forgotten how to cast a fly."

"No, I think not," she answered quietly.

Mrs Dene opened her mouth to speak, and then discreetly closed it again in silence, reflecting that whatever there was to come on that point would get itself said without any assistance from her.

"I had a look at the water as I came along," continued Rex. "It seemed good casting."

"I never see it but I think how nice it would be to whip," said Ruth.

"No! really? Not outgrown the rod and fly since you grew into ball dresses?"

"Try me and see."

"Now, my dearest child! — "

"Yes, my dearest mother! — "

"Yes, dearest Mrs Dene! — "

"Oh! nonsense! listen to me, you children. Ruth danced herself ill at Cannes; and she lost her color, and she had a little cough, and she has it still, and she is very easily tired — "

"Only of not fishing and hunting, dearest, most perfect of mothers! You won't put up papa to forbid my going with him and Rex!"

"Your mother is incapable of such an action. How little you know her worth! She is only waiting to be assured that you are to have my greenheart, with a reel that spins fifty yards of silk. She shall have it, Mrs Dene."

"Is it as good as the hornbeam?" asked Ruth, smiling.

"The old hornbeam! do you remember that? I say, Ruth, you spoke of shooting. Really, can you still shoot?"

"Could I ever forget after such teaching?"

"Well, now, I call that a girl!" cried Rex, enthusiastically.

"Let us hope some people won't call it a hoyden!" said Mrs Dene, with the tender pride that made her faultfinding like a caress. "The idea of a girl carrying an absurd little breech-loading rifle all over Europe!"

"What! the one I had built for her?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs Dene, with a shade more of reserve.

"Miss Dene, you shall kill the first chamois that I see!"

"I fear, Mr Gethryn, the Duke Alfons Adalbert Maximilian in Baiern will have something to say about that!"

"Oh—h—h! Preserved?"

"Yes, indeed, preserved!"

"But they told me I might shoot on the Sonnewendjoch."

"Ah! But that's in Tyrol, just across the line. You can see it from here. Austrian game laws aren't Bavarian game laws, sir!"

"How much of this country does your duke own?"

"Just half a dozen mountains, and half a dozen lakes, and half a hundred trout streams, with all the splendid forests belonging to them."

"Lucky duke! And is the game preserved in the whole region? Can't one get a shot?"

"One cannot even carry a gun without a permit."

Rex groaned. "And the trout — I suppose they are preserved, too?"

"Yes, but the Herr Foerster has the right to fish and so have his guests. There are, however, conditions. The fish you take are not yours. You must buy as many of them as you want to keep, afterward. And they must be brought home alive — or as nearly alive as is consistent with being shut up in a close, round, green tin box, full of water which becomes tepid as it is carried along by a peasant boy in the heat. They usually die of suffocation. But to the German mind that is all right. It is only not right when one kills them instantly and lays them in a cool creel, on fresh wet ferns and moss."

"Nevertheless, I think we will dispense with the boy and the green box, in favor of the ferns and moss, assisted by a five franc piece or two."

"It isn't francs any more; you're not in France. It's marks here, you know."

"Well, I have the same faith in the corrupting power of marks as of francs, or lire, or shillings, or dollars."

"And I think you will find your confidence justified," said Mrs Dene, smiling.

"Mamma trying to be cynical!" said Ruth, teasingly. "Isn't she funny, Rex!"

A thoughtful look stole over her mother's face. "I can be terrible, too, sometimes — " she said in her little, clear, high soprano voice; and she gazed musingly at the edge of a letter, which just appeared above the table, and then sank out of sight in her lap.