This hapless waif of good fortune had thrown herself upon his protection and had paid him the highest compliment that a woman could pay a man—a faith in him that was in itself an inspiration.

Was she in earnest and worth teaching? That was the rub, or would weary feet, hunger, thirst, the chance mishaps of the road bring recantation and flight to Trouville or to Paris? He would put her intentions to the test. She could be pretty sure of that—and if she survived this week under his program of peregrination and philosophy there were hopes for her to justify his rather impulsive acquiescence.

A motor approached and stopped beside him, the man at the wheel asking in French ˆ l'AmŽricain the way to Evreux. He directed them and then, finding that he had emerged upon the other side of the town, returned in search of the Inn, his stride somewhat more rapid than before. Of one thing he was now certain. They must get away from the main road without any further delay.

He found Monsieur Duchanel smoking a pipe upon his door-sill. It was no wonder that he had passed the hostelry by; for saving a small sign obscured by the shadows of the trees, the house, an ancient affair of timber and plaster, differed little from the others which faced the street.

Monsieur Duchanel was a short, round-bellied, dust-colored man, with gray hair and a tuft upon his chin. He was the same color as his house and his sign and gave Markham the impression of having sat upon this same door-sill since the years of a remote antiquity. But he got up blithely enough when the painter announced the object of his visit and showed him, with an air of great pride, through the sleeping apartments which at the present moment were all without occupants. One room with a four-poster, which the host announced had once been occupied by no less a personage than Henri Quatre, Markham picked out for Hermia, and chose for himself a small room overlooking the courtyard at the rear. He ordered dinner, a good dinner, with soup, an entrŽe and a roast to be served in a private room. The American motorist had warned him. But Vagabondia should not begin until to-morrow.

These arrangements made, he returned to the cabaret under the trees. Hermia had disappeared, so he sat at the table, poured out another glass of cider, filled his pipe and waited.

The political argument of his neighbors drew to an end with the end of their beer and they passed him on their way to the gate, each with a friendly glance and a "Bon soir, Monsieur"—which Markham returned in kind. After that it was very quiet and restful under the trees. Markham was not a man to borrow trouble and preferred to reach his bridges before he crossed them, and so whatever the elements Hermia was to inject into the even tenor of his holiday, Markham awaited them tranquilly, though not without a certain mild curiosity as to what was to happen next.

But he was not destined to remain long in doubt; for in a few minutes he hears Hermia's light laugh in the door of the wine-shop, followed by the beating of a drum, the ringing of bells, the crashing of cymbals, the notes of some other instrument sounding discordantly between whiles. And as he started to his feet, wondering what it could be all about, a blonde head stuck out past the edge of the door and peered around at the deserted cabaret. He had hardly succeeded in identifying the head as Hermia's because it wore a scarlet cap embroidered with small bells which explained the bedlam of tinkling. When the rest of her body emerged upon the scene Markham noted that Hermia's transformation was in other respects complete; for she wore a zouave jacket of red, a white blouse and a blue skirt. Upon her back was a round object which upon close inspection turned out to be a drum, the sticks of which were fastened to her elbows, and attached to her neck was a harmonica, so placed that she had only to bend her head forward to reach it with her lips. In her right hand was a mandolin which she waved at him triumphantly as she reached him with a grand crash, squeak, tinkle and thump of all the instruments at once.

Too amazed to speak, Markham stood grinning at her foolishly!

"Well?" she said, throwing her head and elbows back, provoking an unintentional thump and tinkle. "How do you like me?"

"Immensely! But what does it all mean?"

"Foolish man. Mean! It means that Yvonne Deschamps has found a fairy godmother who has transformed her. She has now become a Femme Orchestre and for two sous will discourse sweet music to the rustic ear—mandolin and mouth organ, bells, cymbals and drum—"

She ignored the protest of his upraised hand and again made the air hideous with sound, ending it all with a laugh that made the bells in her cap tinkle merrily.

"Oh, I don't do it very well yet. It's the first time—but you shall see—"

"Do you mean that you're going to wear that harness?"

"I do."

"But you can't walk in that."

"The orchestra is detachable, mon ami."

"It is incredible—"

"And I have engaged a creature to carry it—"

"Meaning—"

"Not you—behold."

Markham followed her symphonic gesture. Madame Bordier approached, leading a donkey from the stable-yard, a diminutive donkey of suspicious eye and protesting ears.

"She's very gentle," sighed the fairy godmother. "It hurts the heart to sell her. But as Monsieur knows—the times are not what they used to be." "She is adorable," cried Hermia. "Isn't she, John Markham?"

"She is," muttered Markham, caressing the stubble at his chin, "entirely so—a vagabond—I should say, every inch of her."

It was not until they had reached the Inn of Monsieur Duchanel some time later that Hermia, having divested herself of the orchestral adjuncts of her costume, confided to Markham the stroke of good fortune which had put her into possession of this providential accoutrement. She had confessed her predicament to Madame Bordier, who, after assuring herself that Hermia was not an escaping criminal, had entered with grace and even some avidity upon the bargain. Hermia wanted a blouse, skirt and hat somewhat worn. But in the act of searching in the garret of the wine-shop among the effects of a departed relative the great discovery had been made. As Madame Bordier went deeper and deeper into the recesses of the malle there was a tinkling sound and she emerged with the cap that Hermia wore and looked at it with sighs followed by tears. At the appearance of each article of apparel, Madame wept anew, and Hermia listened calmly while the "great idea" was slowing being born. It was the daughter of Madame Bordier's late sister—Pauvre fille—who had worn the costume. She was a Femme Orchestre of such skill that her name was known from one end of the Eure to another. She made money, too, bien sžr, but hŽlas! she married a vaurien acrobat who had taken her off to America, where she had died last year. Those clothes—bon Dieu!—they recalled the days of happiness; but if Mademoiselle desired them, she, Madame Bordier, could not stand in the way. Times were hard, as Mademoiselle knew, and if she would give two hundred francs—

"Two hundred francs!" put in Markham at this point.

"I paid it," said Hermia, firmly, "and two hundred more for the donkey. It was all I had. And now, as you see, I must work for my living."

Markham laughed. His responsibilities, it seemed, were increasing with the minutes.

They dined alone at the H™tel des Rois, Monsieur Duchanel himself doing them the honor of serving the repast, which Hermia soon discovered had none of the characteristics of the vagabond fare promised her—a velvety soup—petits pois ˆ la cr�me, an entrŽe, then poulet r™ti, salade endive, cheese and coffee—a meal for the gods, which these mortals partook of with unusual enjoyment. The coffee served, their host departed with one last inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking and service betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition.

"Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm so disappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'm losing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me poulet Duchanel. I want to be bourgeois and everyone treats me like—like a rich American. Shall I never escape?" she sighed.

"To-morrow—" said Markham through a cloud of smoke. "To-morrow you shall be a vagabond. I promise you."

And, as she still looked at him doubtingly, "You don't believe it? Then look!"

He brought out his hand from a pocket and laid some money on the table. "That's all I have, do you see? Fifty francs—twenty of it at least must go for this dinner—I can observe it in the eye of Monsieur Duchanel—ten more for your chamber Henri Quatre—five for mine—leaving us in all fifteen francs to begin life on. You will not feel like a rich American to-morrow—unless you care to send to your bankers—"

"Sh—!" she whispered theatrically. "There is no such thing as a banker in the world."

"You will wish there were before the week is out."

"Will I? You shall see."

So far her enthusiasm was genuine enough. But the philosophy begotten of a poulet Duchanel might easily account for such optimism. Indeed to-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color of roses. The small voice of his conscience still protested faintly at the unconventional character of their fellowship and reminded him that, whatever her indifference to consequences, his obligation to protect her from her own imprudences became the more urgent. But there was a charm in the situation which quite surpassed anything in his experience. She was a child to-night—nothing more—and the zouave jacket and short skirt quite obliterated the memory of that young lady of fashion who had presided a short time ago at the head of the long dinner-table at "Wake Robin." If there was any doubt in her mind as to the propriety of what she had done—of what she planned to do, or any doubt as to his own share in the arrangement, her gay mood gave no sign of it, and the frankness of her friendship for him left nothing to be desired. What did it matter, after all, so long as they were happy—so long as no one learned the secret.

His brow clouded and she read his thought.

"You're worried about me."

He nodded.

"The sooner we're far away from the high road between Paris and Trouville, the better I'll be pleased."

She smiled down at her costume.

"No one will possibly know me in this. That's why I got it."

"Don't be too sure. There are people—" he paused, his thoughts flying, curiously enough, to Olga Tcherny, "people who wouldn't understand," he finished. She laughed.

"I don't doubt it. It's quite possible I wouldn't understand myself. We're never quite so impressed with our own virtues as when we can find flaws in other people. But you know I'm not courting discovery."

"Nor I. We must leave here at dawn."

"As you please. Now I'm going to bed."

She got up and gave him her hand and he led her to the door.

"Good night, Hermia, and pleasant dreams. You shall taste the springs at their fountain head, meet the world with naked hands, learn the luxury of contentment; or else—" as he paused she put her hand before his lips.

"There is no alternative. I shall not fail you. Good night, Philidor."

"Good night, Hermia."

Markham sought out Duchanel and sent a telegram to Olga which Hermia had dictated. "Have changed my plans. Am leaving with a party for a tour of French Inns. Will communicate later."

Duchanel understood. The message would be forwarded from Paris as Monsieur directed. No one in Passy or elsewhere should know.

Markham nodded and paid the bill, producing from a wallet which Hermia had not seen an additional amount which Duchanel found sufficient to compensate him for his trouble.

"You understand, Monsieur?" said Markham, as he went up to bed. "Madame and I are leaving here ˆ pied. We shall have coffee and brioche at five. You will not remember which way we go."

"Parfaitement, Monsieur. You may rely upon my discretion."

CHAPTER XIII

VAGABONDIA

They took the road in the gray of a morning overcast with clouds and portentous of a storm. At the last moment, their host, with an eye upon the weather (and another upon Markham's hidden wallet), had sought to keep them until the skies were more propitious. But they were not to be dissuaded and trudged off briskly, Monsieur Duchanel and Madam Bordier accompanying them to the cross-roads and bidding them God-speed upon their journey.

Markham, pipe in mouth, his hat pulled over his eyes, his coat collar turned up, showed the way, while Hermia, her finery hidden under a long coat, followed, leading the donkey, which, after a few preliminary remonstrances, consented to accompany them. A tarpaulin covered Hermia's orchestra and Markham's knapsack which were securely packed upon the animal—a valiant, if silent company, marching confidently into the unknown, Hermia smiling defiance at the clouds, Markham smoking grimly, the donkey ambling impassively, the least concerned of the three.

A rain had fallen in the night but Hermia splashed through the mud and water joyously, like a child, thankful nevertheless for Markham's thoughtfulness which had provided her last night with a pair of stout shoes and heavy stockings. To a spirit less blithe than hers the outlook would have been gloomy enough, for all the morning the clouds scurried fast overhead and squalls of rain and fog drove into the misty south. The trees turned the white backs of their shivering leaves to the wind and dripped moisture. The birds silently preened their wet plumage on the fences or sought the shelter of the hedges. Nature had conspired. But Hermia plodded on undismayed, aware of her companion's long stride and his indifference to discomfort. Her shoes were soaked and at every step the donkey splashed her new stockings, but she did not care; for she had discovered a motive in life and followed her quest open-eyed, aware that already she was rearranging her scale of values to suit her present condition. She was beginning to feel the "needs and hitches" of life and had a sense of the flints strewn under foot. Her mind was already both occupied and composed. She was quite moist and muddy. She had never been moist or muddy before without the means at hand to become dry and clean. Those means lacking, mere comfort achieved an extraordinary significance—reached at a bound an importance which surprised her.

After a while Markham glanced at her and drew alongside.

"Discouraged?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she smiled at him. "But I hadn't an idea that rain was so wet."

"I promised you the fountain springs of life—not a deluge," he laughed. "But it won't last," he added cheerfully with a glance at the sky. "It should clear soon."

"I don't care. The sunshine will be so much the more welcome."

He smiled at her approvingly.

"You are learning. That's the vagabond philosophy."

He was a true prophet. In an hour a brisk wind from the west had blown the storm away and burnished the sky like a new jewel. All things animate suddenly awoke and field and road were alive with people. The birds appeared from tree and bush and set joyously about getting their belated breakfasts. A miracle had happened, it seemed to Hermia. The blood in her veins surged deliciously, and all the world rejoiced with her. And yet—it was merely that the sun had come out.

They had mounted a high hill and stopped for breath at its summit. The country over which they were to travel was spread out for their inspection. Down there in the valley the river choosing its leisurely course northward to the Seine, and beyond it the harlequin checkerboard of vine and meadow, the sentinel poplars, and to the east-ward the blue hills that sheltered Ivry-la-Bataille. Tiny villages, each with its slender campanile, made incidental notes of life and color and here and there, afar, the tall chimneys of factories stained the sky. About them in the nearer fields were hay-wagons and workers, men and women, their shouts and songs floating up the hill refined and mellowed by the distances.

Hermia took the air into her lungs, and surveyed the landscape.

"All this," said Markham, "is yours and mine—you see, when you have nothing, everything belongs to you."

She laughed.

"You won't dare to put that philosophy to the test. There's a delicious odor of cooking food. If everything belongs to me, I'll trouble you for the contents of that coffee-pot."

"Not hungry already—!"

"Frightfully so. I haven't eaten for ages."

He looked at his watch.

"It's only eleven, but of course—"

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans."

"You don't. I have no plans. We'll go into camp at once."

They descended the hill and after a while found a secluded spot near the river bank. Markham quickly unstrapped the donkey's pack and to Hermia's surprise drew forth a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle of red wine which he set out with some pride on a flat rock near by.

"This," he announced, "is our d�jeuner ˆ la fourchette. I won't apologize for it."

"Wonderful man! Somehow you remind me of the sleight-of-hand performer producing an omelette from a silk hat. I don't think I've ever been really hungry before in my life."

He opened the bottle with the corkscrew on his pocket-knife and watched her munching hungrily at the rye-bread.

"Half the pleasure in life, after all, is wanting a thing and getting it," he observed. "How can you want anything if you've already got it?"

"I can't," she mumbled, her mouth full, "unless perhaps it's this bread."

He passed the bottle to her and she drank from it sparingly, passing it to him again.

"Every wine is a vintage if you're thirsty enough," he added. "The trouble with our world is that most of its people are always about half full of food. You can't really enjoy things to eat or things to drink unless you're quite empty. It's the same thing with ideas. You can't think very clearly when you're half full of other people's biases."

"Or their b-bread and ch-cheese!" she said, choking. Further than that she did not reply at once. The reasons were obvious. But she munched reflectively, and when she had swallowed:

"If all your arguments are as convincing as your fare, then you and I shall never disagree," she said.

Clarissa, for that was the name she had given the beast, was turned loose in the meadow. Markham sat beside Hermia on the warm rock, and, between them, without further words, they finished both the wine and the food. Markham filled his pipe and stretched out at full length in lazy content while she sat beside him, brushing the dried cakes of mud from her skirt and stockings.

"Well, here we are across the Rubicon," she said at last.

He nodded.

"Are you sorry?"

"No, not in the least. I'm more astonished than anything else at the ridiculous simplicity of my emancipation. Yesterday at this hour I was a highly respectable if slightly pampered person with a shrewd sense of my own importance in the economic and social scheme; to-day I'm a mere biped—an instinct on legs, with nothing to recommend me but an amiable disposition and an abnormal appetite.

"You've made progress," he laughed lazily. "Yesterday you lisped knowingly of devil-wagons. You weren't even a biped. I'll admit it's something to have discovered the possession of legs."

"I do. And it's something more to have discovered the possession of an appetite."

"And still something more to discover a means to gratify it," he grunted.

If he sought to intimidate her, he failed of his object, for she only laughed at him.

"Oh, I shall not starve. Presently you shall hear me practice with my orchestra. Just now, mon ami, I'm too delightfully sleepy to think of doing anything else."

"Sleep, then."

He laid his coat on the rock, and she sank back upon it, but not to close her eyes. They were turned on a squadron of clouds which sailed in the wide bay between the forest and the hilltop. Markham, leaning on an elbow, puffed at his pipe in silence. She turned her head and looked at him.

"It's curious—" she began, and then passed.

"What is—curious?"

She laughed.

"Curious with what little ceremony I threw myself on your mercy; curious that you've been so tolerant with me; curious that—you've no curiosity."

"I never believe in being curious," he laughed. "When you're ready, you'll tell me and not before.

"About what?" "About young Armistead, for instance."

"We disagreed. He insisted on marrying me."

"That was tactless of him."

"You know it was only a trial engagement, and it was—a trial—to both of us."

Markham grinned.

"You've relieved my mind of one burden, at least," he said. "I like Reggie. He's a nice boy. But I haven't any humor to find him poking around in these bushes with a shotgun." "Oh, there's no danger of that," she replied demurely, oblivious of his humor. "Reggie and I have parted."

Markham's eyes were turned upon the clouds. "That's rather a pity—in a way," he said quietly. "I thought you were quite suited to each other. But then—" and he surprised a curious look in her yes "—if you were going to marry Reggie, you see, you couldn't be here—and I would be the loser."

"I don't see that that would have made the slightest difference," she replied rather tartly, "provided I had not married him."

"Oh, don't you?" he finished with a smile.

"No, I don't. And I don't believe you when you way that you think Reggie and I were sited to each other. Because if you thought I was the kind of girl to be satisfied with Reggie, you wouldn't have thought it worth while to make a vagabond of me."

His brows drew downward. "I haven't made a vagabond of you—not yet."

She examined his face steadily.

"You mean—that you don't believe me to be sincere?"

He didn't reply at once.

"I won't quibble with you, Hermia," he said in a moment. "You've paid me a pretty compliment by coming with me out here. But I'm not going to let it blind my judgment. You were hopelessly bored—back there. You've admitted it. You felt the need of some other form of amusement—so you chose this. That's all."

Hermia straightened and sat with her hands clasped around her knees, looking at vacancy. "That's unkind of you," she said quietly.

"I don't mean it to be unkind," he went on softly. "I don't deny the genuineness of your impulse. But you mustn't forget that you and I have grown up in different schools. I'm selfish in my way as you are in yours. I choose this life because I love it better than anything else, because it's my idea of contentment. I've approached it thoughtfully and with a great deal of respect, as a result of some years of patient and unsuccessful experiment with other forms of existence. That's the reason why I'm a little jealous for it, a little suspicious of your sudden conversion."



"You have no right to doubt my sincerity—not yet," she said.

"No," slowly. "Not yet. I'm only warning you that it isn't going to be easy—warning you that you will be placed in positions that may be unpleasant to you, when our relations may be questioned—"

"I've considered that," quickly. "I'm prepared for that. I will do what is required of me."

He took her hand and held it for a moment in his own, but she would not look at him.

"Hermia—"

"What, Philidor?"

"You're not angry?"

"Not in the least. I'm not a fool—"

Suddenly she sprang down the rock away from him, and, before he knew what she was about, had fastened her "orchestra" around her and was making the air hideous with sound. He sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the rock, watching her and laughing at the futile efforts of her members to achieve a concert. Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to look up, ears erect, eying the musician in grave surprise, and then, with a contemptuous flirt of her tail, went on with her repast.

"Everyone knows a donkey has no soul for music," laughed Hermia, in a breathless pause between efforts.

"Meaning me?"

"Meaning both of you," said Hermia. "Wait a moment."

She tuned her mandolin, and, neglecting the harmonica, in a moment drew forth some chords and then sang:

/* "Sur le pont d'Avignon L'on y danse, l'on y danse, Sur le pont d'Avignon L'on y danse tout en rond." */

And then, after a pause, with an elaborate curtsey to Clarissa:

/* "Les beaux messieurs font comme �a Et puis encore comme �a." */

"The Pont d'Avignon?" he laughed with delight. "Bravo, Yvonne!"

"Now perhaps you'll believe in me."

"I do. I will. Until the end of time," he cried. "Once more now, with the drum obbligato."

She obeyed and found it difficult because every time her elbows struck the drum her fingers flew from the mandolin. But she managed it at last, and in the end made shift to use the harmonica, too.

Then followed "The Marseillaise." That was easier. The air had a swing to it, and she managed both the drum and the cymbals. But it was warm work and she stopped for a while, rosy and breathless.

"What do you think?"

"Oh, magnificent. Yvonne Deschamps—Femme Orchestre, Messieurs et Dames, queen of the lyrical world, the musical marvel of the century, artist by appointment to the President of the RŽplublique Fran�aise and all the crowned heads of Europe. How will that do?"

"Beautifully. And you—what will you do?"

"I— Oh, I will pass the hat."

She laughed. "So! You intend to live in luxury at my expense. No, thank you, Monsieur Philidor. I'm doing my share. You shall do yours. I'll trouble you to keep your word. You shall paint portraits at two francs a head."

"I didn't really intend—"

"You shall keep your promise," she insisted.

"But, Hermia, I—"

"There are no 'buts'!" she broke in. "A moment ago you indulged in some fine phrases at the expense of my sincerity. Now look to yours. We'll have an honest partnership—an equal partnership, or we'll have no partnership."

He rubbed his head reflectively.

"Oh, I'll do it, I suppose," he said at last.

She laughed at him and resumed her practicing, making some notable improvements on her first attempts and adding "M�re Michel" and "Au Claire de la Lune," "Le Roi Dagobert" to her rŽpertoire.

"Where on earth did you learn that?" he asked in an entr'acte.

"At school—in Paris."

"And the mandolin?"

"A parlor trick. You see, I'm not so useless, after all."

Presently, when she sat beside him to rest, he brought out a pad and crayon and made a drawing of her in her cap and bells. He began a little uncertainly, a little carelessly, but his interest growing, in a moment he was absorbed.

Whatever knowledge of her had been hidden from him as a man, it seemed suddenly revealed to the painter now. The broad, smooth brow which meant intelligence, the short nose, which meant amiability, the nostrils well arched, which meant pride, the first rounded lips, which meant sensibility, the sharp little declivity beneath them and the squarish chin, which meant either willfulness or determination (he chose the former), and the eyes, gray blue, set ever so slightly at an angle, which could mean much or nothing at all.

"Do you see me like that?" she laughed when it was finished. "I'm so glad. You can draw, can't you?"

He held out his palm. "Two francs, please."

She put the sketch behind her back.

"Oh, no, Monsieur. Not so fast. You shall give me this for the sake of my belle musique. Is not that fair?"

"But I've taken rather a fancy to it myself."

"We'll compromise," and she stuck it up on a crevice of the rock, "and hang it on the wall of the dining-room."

Another rehearsal of Hermia's program, longer this time and with a greater care for details; and then Markham looked at his watch, knocked out his pipe, and reported that it was time they were on their way.

Half an hour later they had reached a fork of the road.

"Which way now, camarade?" cried Hermia, who was leading. Markham examined the bushes, the trees, and the fences. He stood for a moment looking down at a minute object by the side of the road, a twig, as Hermia saw, broken in the middle, the open angle toward them.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It's the patteran," he replied, "and it points to the west road."

And so to the westward they went.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FABIANI FAMILY

The walking was easier now. It was blither, too. Hermia's achievements in a musical way had given her confidence. If Madame Bordier's defunct niece had been the best Femme Orchestre in the Eure, there was no reason why Hermia shouldn't fit into her reputation as comfortably as she fitted into her post-humous garments. Clarissa, too, jogged along without her bridle, and Markham found little use for the goad he had whittled to save the use of the halter. The people on the road looked at them curiously, passed a rough jest, and sent them on the merrier. Markham had destroyed his road map and now they followed the patteran, leaving their destiny to fortune. In the late afternoon, on their way through a forest, Clarissa suddenly halted and, in spite of much urging, refused to go on. Hermia took the halter and Markham the goad, and after a while they moved slowly forward, the donkey still protesting. A scurrying in the underbrush, and several dogs appeared, barking furiously. Their offensiveness went no further than this, however, and in a moment Markham made out the bulk of a roulette in the shadows of the wood, the shaggy specter of a horse, a camp-fire, and a party of caravaners. There was a strip of carpet laid out near the fire upon which a small figure, clad only in an undershirt and a pair of faded red trunks, was busily engaged in wrapping its legs round the back of its neck. The cause of Clarissa's unhappiness was also apparent; for chained to a sapling nearby, rolling its great head foolishly from side to side, sat a tame bear.

There were greetings as the newcomers approached, the dogs were called off, and a burly man rose and came to the roadside to meet them.

"Bona jou," he said, smiling, his teeth milk white under his stringy black mustache. Markham returned the salutation. The caravaner glanced at Hermia's costume and swept off his hat.

"You go to Alen�on for the f�te?" he asked in very bad French.

Markham nodded. It was easier to nod than to explain just now. The big man smiled again and pointed to the fire with a gesture of invitation. After a glance at Hermia, in whose face he read affirmation, Markham assented, and urging the unwilling donkey, he and Hermia followed their host down the slope and into the glen.

The small figure on the carpet, which had not for one moment ceased its contortions, now consented to unwind its limbs and stand upright; and in this position assumed definite form as a slender slip of a girl, about twelve years of age. A man and a woman with a baby rose and greeted them. The introductions were formal. They had fallen, it seems, upon the tender mercies of the Fabiani Family of Famous Athletes. The big man tapped his huge chest.

"Moi!" he announced with pardonable pride. "I am Signor Cleofonte Fabiani, the world's greatest wrestler and strong man. Here," and he pointed to the others, "is Signor Luigi Fabiani, the world's greatest acrobat; there Signora Fabiani, world famous as a juggler and hand balancer; Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder of the twentieth century."

He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance than his ordinary command of French had indicated, giving complexion to the thought, as did his gestures, that this was his public confession. Not to be outdone in civility, Markham replied:

"Mademoiselle—" he paused and changed her title to "Madame" (a discretion which the others acknowledged with nods of the head)—Madame was Yvonne Deschamps, Premi�r lady musician of the world, who played five separate and distinct musical instruments at one and the same time—an artist known, as the Signor would perhaps be aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from Brittany to the Russias.

Hermia bowed.

As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the lightning portrait artist, of Paris. Likenesses, two francs—soldiers, ten sous.

Signor Fabiani was glad. Madonna mia! It was not often that such persons met. Would the visitors not join him at a pitcher of Calvados which was not cooling in the stream?

Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the roulette near the shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who was already at her ease by the fire and playing with the bambino. They were a jolly lot and made a fine plea for Markham's philosophy of content. Signor Fabiani brought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from the house-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as thieves, drinking healths and wishing one another a prosperous pilgrimage. The Fabiani family had never been to Alen�on. This was one of the few parts of the world into which their fame had not yet spread. All the more their profit and glory! Sacro mento! They would see what they would see. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap heavy chains about his chest. He would put a great stone on his stomach, and, while he supported himself on his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stone with a sledge hammer. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift her far above his head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch her upon his shoulders. And the Signora meanwhile would juggle with a piece of paper, an egg, and a cannonball. O Jesu! They should see!

He stopped and looked at Hermia. A Femme Orchestre! In all his travels in Italy he had never seen one. The signora was an artista, though. That was clear. One only had to look at her to see that. He would listen with delight to her music. And Signor Philidor—would Signor Philidor do his portrait? He would pay—

He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, elbow out, and took a dramatic pose of the head. He was wonderful. Markham at once fetched his sketching materials and drew him, while the others crowded about, looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and watched the feat accomplished. Not until it was done was Cleofonte permitted to see. It would spoil the pose.

And then! Che magnifico pitture! It was nothing short of a miracle! The nose perhaps a little shorter—but Madre Dio! what could one expect in twenty minutes! Did not the mustache need a little smoothing? Upon the morning of the performance it was Cleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum. The cap, the earrings, the mole upon his cheek—everything was as like as possible. Si, Monsieur Philidor was a great artist—a very great artist. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, said so.

But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and presented it to Cleofonte with his compliments, the athlete's delight knew no bounds. He shoed his teeth, and stood first upon one foot and then upon the other, the sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubby fingers. The Signora, relinquishing the bambino to Hermia, looked over his shoulder, more pleased, even, than he. After that nothing would do but that the visitors must stay for supper. Nothing much—a soup, some rye bread, peas, and lettuce, but, if they would condescend, he, Fabiani, would be highly honored. Hermia accepted with alacrity. She was hungry again. Markham smiled and glanced up at the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's pack, and brought out a roasted chicken cold, a loaf of bread, a new tin pot, and a bag of coffee, which he brought to the fireside.

The Signora insisted on preparing the meal, so Markham filled his pipe and helped Hermia to amuse the bambino.

"You will pardon?" said Fabiani. "But this is the hour of practice, while the supper is preparing. Luigi, Stella, we will go on if you please."

The child rose, rather ruefully, Hermia thought, and took her place upon the mat, where, under Luigi's direction, she went through the exercises which were to keep her young limbs supple for the approaching performances. It was the familiar thing—the slow bending of the back until the palms of the hands touched the ground, in which position the child walked backward and forward, the contortions of the slender body, the "split," the putting of the legs around the neck. Hermia had seen these acts at the VariŽtŽs and at Madison Square Garden when the circus came, but had seen them at a great distance, under a blaze of light, as part of a great spectacle in a performance which went so smoothly that one never gave a thought to the difficulty of achievement. There in the silent shadows of the wood, bared of its tinsel and music, the rehearsal took on a different color. She saw the straining muscles of the child, the beads of perspiration which stood on her brow, the livid face with its tortured expression. An exclamation of pity broke from her lips. "Is it not enough?" she asked. Cleofonte only laughed through his cigarette smoke. It seemed like a great deal, he said. She had not had her practice yesterday. It would be still easier to-morrow. And then he signaled for the performance to be repeated. At last Hermia turned to the bambino and would look no more. She was tasting life, other people's, at the springs, as John Markham had promised, and it was not sweet.

There was a brief rest, after which Luigi and Stella did an acrobatic performance of tumbling and balancing in which at the end Cleofonte joined with a masterful air, punctuating the acts with cries and handclaps, and at the end of each act they all bowed and kissed the tips of their fingers right and left to the imaginary audience. The rehearsal ended in applause from the visitors. As for the Signora, having put the coffee on to boil, she was not nursing the bambino. Cleofonte came up, puffing and blowing and tapping his chest. "The performance is ended," he exclaimed, "in tricks with Tomasso—that is the name of my bear—and in great feats of strength, as I have told you, after which I make my great wrestling challenge, to throw any man in the world for one hundred francs. Madre de Dio! You can be sure that when they see Luigi break the stone upon me—they are not zealous."

The baby bed and fast asleep, it was put to bed in the wagon and they all sat at supper. The delight Hermia had taken in her new acquaintances—Fabiani's bombast, Luigi's grace, and the Signora's motherly perquisites—had lost some of its spontaneity since she had seen the expression on the face of the child Stella, when she had gone through her act of dŽcarcasse. It haunted her like the memory of a bad dream and brought into stronger contrast her own girlhood in New York, with its nurses and governesses and the sheltered life she had led under their care and supervision.

And when Stella, her slim figure wrapped in a shabby cloak, came from the roulette and joined them at the fire, Hermia motioned her to the place beside her. When she sat, Hermia put an arm around the child and kissed her softly on the brow. Stella looked up at her timidly and then put her sinewy brown hand in Hermia's softer ones and there let it stay. Hermia had made a friend.

Cleofonte looked up from his chicken bone and shook his huge shoulders.

"You are sorry, Signorina? Jesu mio! So am I. But what would you have? One must eat."

"It seems a pity," said Hermia, smiling.

Fabiani shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows to the sky, with the resignation of the fatalist. "It is life—voilˆ tout."

The soup was of vegetables, for which the Fabiani family had not paid, but it was none the less nourishing on that account. The chicken, a luxury, for which for many days the palate of the Fabiani family had been innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with magic haste. The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad were beyond cavil; and the coffee—of Monsieur Duchanel's best—made all things complete.

The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the stars came peeping shyly forth. Fabiani, who for all his braggadocio did not lack a certain magnificence, had insisted that the visitors remain in camp for the night. Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with the Signora Fabiani, Stella and the baby. Were there not two beds? As for Monsieur Philidor—he knew a man when he saw one. The night was heaven sent. Monsieur should sleep as he and Luigi slept—ˆ la belle Žtoile.

Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had accepted the invitation, and now, all care banished for at least twelve hours, they sat in great good fellowship before the fire, listening to Cleofonte's tales of the road. They forgave him much for his good heart and at appropriate moments led in applause of his prowess and achievements. When the conversation lagged, which it did when Cleofonte grew weary, Hermia brought forth her orchestre and played for them; first the tunes she had practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence in their appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funicula," to which Cleofonte, who had a soul for concord, roared a fine basso. It was a night for vagabonds, carefree, a night of laughter, of mirth and of song. What did it matter what happened on the morrow? Here were meat, drink and good company. Could any mortal ask for more?

After a time, the din awakening the bambino, the Signora went to bed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, followed to the wagon. The animals fed and watered, Markham settled down by the fire with his newly found friends and lit a pipe. In a moment Luigi had fallen back on his blanket and was asleep. Markham was conscious that Fabiani still talked, but he had already learned that it was not necessary to make replies, and so he sat, nodding or answering in monosyllables. A warm breeze sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and a night bird called in the distance. The glow of the fire painted the trunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty to where their branches held eyrie among the stars. The chains of the bear still clanked as he rolled to and fro until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofonte brought quiet in that direction. After a while even Cleofonte grew weary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, and he sank prone and slept.

Markham sat for a long while, his back against the bole of a tree, pipe in mouth, gazing into the embers of the fire. He had brought the tarpaulin which covered the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had provided him with a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep. The smile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleasant ones. Hermia had learned something to-day—would learn something more to-morrow, and yet she had not flinched from the school in which he was driving her. If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her from her venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calculations. Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make her relish the keener. She was drinking in impressions avidly, absorbing the new life as a sponge absorbs water, differing from this only in the particular that her capacity for retention had no limitations. He smiled because it pleased him to think that his judgment of her character had not been at fault. Hers was a brave soul, not easily daunted or discouraged, better worthy of this life which was teaching its stoicism, charity and self-abnegation than of that other life which denied by self-sufficiency their very existence—a gallant spirit which for once soared free of the worldly, venal and time-serving. It pleased him to think it was by his means that she had been bought into his valley of contentment and that thus far she had found it pleasant. Would the humor last?

Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths of his being, and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly. Markham looked toward the roulette. The lantern which had burned there a while ago had been extinguished. Strangely enough, although it was his custom to be much alone, Markham wanted company. He wished at least that Hermia had bade him good night. It was curious how quickly one fell into the habit of gregariousness. He and Hermia had fared together but for one day, and yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon her presence. It was the habit of interdependence, of course—he recognized it, the same habit which led men and women in droves to the cities, to herd in the back streets of the slums when the clean vales of the open country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub and clover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as one should at the stars, lulled by the song of the stream or the whistle of the south wind in the— His head nodded and his pipe dropped from his teeth. Heigho! he had almost been asleep.

He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground. As he did so a dry twig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and presently a small phantom emerged from the shadows. It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon her lips in token of silence.

"Couldn't you sleep?" he whispered.

"No. It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got to sleep I came away."

He laid a log upon the fire, and made a place for her beside him.

"It was very nice of you," he whispered. "To tell the truth, I wanted you."

"Then I'm glad I came. I shall sleep here, by the fire, if you don't mind."

"You're not afraid of the damp?"

"I never take colds."

She smiled at the prostrate Cleofonte, whose stertorous breathing shattered the silences.

"He is so much in earnest about everything," she laughed.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. "You've had a hard day."

"Yes—a little. But I don't feel like sleeping."

"Nor I—but you'd better sleep, you've been up since dawn."

"What time is it?" she inquired.

He looked at his watch. "There is no time in Vagabondia. The birds have been asleep a long while. But if you must know—it's half-past nine."

"Only that?" in surprise. "We've turned time backward, haven't we?"

"Of life forward," he paused and then: "You are still willing to go on?" he asked.

She smiled into the fire.

"I am," quietly. "I'm committed irrevocably."

"To me?"

"Oh, no. To myself, mon ami. You are merely my recording angel."

"A vagabond angel—"

"Or an angel vagabond. I haven't disappointed you?"

He laughed softly, but made no reply. Of a truth, she had not.

"I was just thinking what a pity it was that during all these years your gifts have been so prodigally wasted. You have, I think, the greatest gift of all."

"And what is that?"

"The talent for living."

"Have I? Then I've learned it to-day. I have lived to-day, John," she whispered. "I have lived every hour of it." She watched the yellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log. "The talent for living!" she mused. "I never thought of that."

"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root in the soil, Hermia—unless you're an orchid."

"That's it, I know. But I'm not an orchid any longer."

Markham rose and knocked his pipe out.

"No," he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus—and so am I. You must remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawn for waking. The birds know that. So does Cleofonte. Therefore, you, too, child, shall sleep—and at once."

He raised the tarpaulin, scraped the ground free of twigs and stones, and then laid it back carefully, fetching his overcoat for a pillow.

"Voilˆ, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all day. I hope you fill find the mattress to your liking."

"But—where will you sleep?"

"Here; nearby—in Cleofonte's blanket."

She drew her long coat around her.

"You're a masterful person," she laughed. "What would happen if I refused to obey?"

"An immovable object would encounter an irresistible force."

She smiled and stretched herself out. He bent forward and laid the loose end of the cover over her.

"Good night, child. As a reward of obedience, you shall dream of a porcelain bath tub and a tooth brush."

She smiled, and, fishing in the pocket of her coat, drew out a small object wrapped in paper.

"It's the only thing I've saved from the wreck of my respectability—but the porcelain bath tub! Don't temp me."

He turned away and picked up Fabiani's blanket.

"Good night, Hermia," he said.

"Good night."

"Pleasant dreams."

"And you—good night."

"Good night."

CHAPTER XV

DANGER

It seemed to Hermia that she had hardly closed her eyes before she opened them again and found herself broadly awake. A blue light was filtering softly through the tops of the trees and the birds were already calling. She pushed her cover away and sat up, all her senses acutely alive. The fire was out, but the air was not chill. She glanced at Markham's recumbent figure, at Cleofonte and Luigi, and then stealthily arose. Tomasso, the bear, who of all the vagabond company had alone kept vigil, eyed her whimsically from his small eyes and moved uneasily in his chains.

On tiptoe she made her way to the stream, one of the dogs following her, but she patted him on the head and sent him back to the wagon. As she reached the depths of the forest she relaxed her vigilance and went rapidly down the stream, finding at last at some distance a quiet pool in the deep shadows. Here was her porcelain tub. She quickly undressed and bathed, her teeth chattering with the cold, but before the caravaners were awake was back in camp, gathering wood for the fire.

Her activities, furtive as they were, awakened Markham, who sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hello!" he said. "Haven't you been asleep?"

For reply she pointed silently through the tree trunks to the rosy East.

He got to his feet, shaking himself, rubbed his eyes sleepily, and took from her hand the dead branch which she was dragging to the fire. Between them they awoke Cleofonte, who lumbered to his feet and stared about with bleary eyes.

"Bon giorno, Signora—Signor. I have slept—oh, what sleep! Luigi! Up with you. Dio! It is already day."

Immediately the camp was in commotion. The Signora descended from the wagon, and with Hermia's help prepared the breakfast while Stella held the baby. By sunrise the gray horse was hitched to the shafts of the wagon, the bear hitched to its tail and the travelers were on their way—the contents of one's valise is on one's back in Vagabondia. Cleofonte had invited Hermia to sit with him upon the seat of the wagon, but she had refused and taken her place by Markham's side behind Clarissa, who, quite peacefully, followed in the trail of Tomasso, the bear.

In this order the procession moved forward into the golden wake of the morning. Hermia was in a high humor—joyous, sparkling, satirical by turns. If yesterday she had found a talent for living, to-day it seemed the genius for joy had gotten into her veins. Her mood was infectious, and Markham found himself carried along on its tide, aware that she was drawing him by imperceptible inches from his shell, accepting his aphorisms in one moment that she might the more readily pick them to pieces in the next. He couldn't understand her, of course. She hadn't intended that he should, and this made the game so much the more interesting for them both. He didn't mind her tearing his dignity to taters—and this she did with a thoroughness which surprised him, but he discarded the rags of it with an excellent grace, meeting her humor with a gayety which left nothing to be desired.

"O Philidor!" she cried. "What a delusion you are!"

"Me? Why?"

"Your gravity, your dignity, your wise saws and maxims—your hatred of women."

"Oh, I say."

"All pose!" she continued gaily. "Politic but ineffective. You love us all madly, I know. Do they make love to you, Philidor?"

"Who?"

"Your beautiful sitters."

"No," he growled. "That's not what they're in the studio for."

She smiled inscrutably.

"Olga did."

He gave Clarissa a prod.

"Olga?"

"Yes. She told me so."

"Curious I shouldn't have been aware of it."

"And you weren't aware of it—er—in my perg—"

"Hermia!"

"Or of the face powder on your coat lapel?"

"No."

"It was there, you know. You carried it quite innocently into the glare of the smoking-room. Poor Olga! And she is always so careful to cover her trails! But I warned her. She shall not trifle with your young affections—"

"You warned her?" he said, with a startled air.

"Yes, that unless she intended to marry you she must leave you alone."

Markham flicked a fly from the donkey's ear.

"H—m," he said, and relapsed into silence. She glanced at him sideways before she went on.

"You know you're not really angry with me, Philidor. You couldn't be. It isn't my fault if I stumbled into the climacteric of your interesting romance. I wouldn't willingly have done it for worlds. But I couldn't help seeing, could I? And Olga was so self-possessed! Only a woman terribly disconcerted could be quite so self-possessed as Olga was. And then the next day you went away. Flight is confession, Philidor."

"H—m," said Markham. "If there are any missing details that you'd like me to supply, don't hesitate to mention them."

"I wouldn't—if there were any."

"And you believe—"

"That you're madly in love with the most dangerous woman in New York, and that only time and distance can salve your wounds and her conscience."

He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder.

"That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor," she went on, "a delusion—also a snare. Your beetling brows, your air of indifference, your intolerance of the world, they're the defensive armor for your shrinking susceptibilities—you a painter of beautiful women! Every sitter in your studio an enemy in the house—every tube of paint a silent witness of your frailty—every brush stroke a delicious pain—the agony of it!"

She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip. "It's much wiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?"

Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa refused to be drawn into the discussion. Indeed, his patience, like that of their beast of burden, continued to be excellent. Hermia's impish spirit was not proof against such imperturbably good humor, and at last she subsided. Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking after a while with a cool assertiveness.

"It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly sentimental ass you've been picturing me, that you'd care to trust yourself to what you are pleased to call my shrinking susceptibilities."

"But you're in love with another woman," she said taking to cover quickly.

"I'm in love with all other women," he laughed. "All—that is—except yourself. It must be a surprise to one who counts her conquests daily to discover that, of all the women in the world, you are the only female my shrinking susceptibilities are proof against."

Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes now quite violent and child-like.

"I never thought of that, Philidor. It is curious that I never thought of that. It isn't very flattering to me, is it?"

"No—especially as the opportunities for indulgence in my favorite pursuit are so very obvious."

She laughed but looked away. He had provided a sauce for the gander which made him seem anything but a goose.

"But, of course, you—you couldn't take advantage of them—under the circumstances," she remarked.

He shook his head, doggedly whimsical. "One never can tell just how long one's defensive armor may hold out. I'm sure my brows are beetling much less than usual. In fact, this morning in spite of severe provocation they don't seem to be beetling at all. And as for my air of indifference—I challenge you to discover it. If these are forbidding symptoms, Hermia, take warning while there's time."

"Oh, I'm not in the least alarmed," she said demurely.

But she let him alone after that. They followed slowly in the trail of the roulotte. Whether because of Clarissa's habitual drowsiness or their own interest in other matters, the shaggy horse had gone faster than they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of straight road their hosts of the night had disappeared.

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Hermia then.

"No, I don't. I never know where I'm going. But I'm sure of one thing. We must make some money at once."

"We'll follow Cleofonte to Alen�on then," said Hermia resolutely.

So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved forward at a brisker pace.

They had met few people upon the road this morning and these, as on the day before, were farmers or those who worked for them, both men and women. The main line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, lay some miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much harder one, that the motorists went if southward bound. It was therefore with some surprise that they heard behind them the sound of a motor horn. Markham caught the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car came even with them, running slowly, and stopped, its engine humming.

"This is the way to Verneuil?" asked the man at the wheel in French.

"I hope so," said Markham returning their salutation. "For that's the way we're going."

Something in Markham's manner and speech arrested the driver's eye, which passed rapidly to Hermia, who stood silently at the side of the road, suddenly aware of an unusual interest in her appearance. The man at the wheel turned to his companion and said something in a low tone. Markham felt a warm color surge upward to his brows.

"Will you precede us, Monsieur," he said coolly, "we are already late upon the way."

But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at once and, ignoring Markham, questioned Hermia gaily.

Mademoiselle was a bohŽmienne. Perhaps she would condescend to read their fortunes.

Hermia made a pretty courtesy and laughed.

"Unfortunately—Monsieur is mistaken," she said easily. "I am not a teller of fortunes. But what does it matter since Monsieur's fortune is so plainly written upon his face."

"And what is that?"

"The fortune of the fortunate. Bien sžr. The bon Dieu cared well for those who rode in automobiles."

The Frenchman smiled and glanced at Markham, who was busying himself with the donkey's pack.

"Mademoiselle is very blonde for a tsigane," he ventured again.

"I come from the North country," said Hermia promptly.

The Frenchman's eyes which had never left her face wore a curious expression.

"It is strange," he said, "but somewhere I have seen your face before."

"That is where I am accustomed to wear it, Monsieur," she said quickly.

He laughed.

"I can only say that it becomes your costume admirably."

Markham straightened, frowning.

"Allons, Yvonne," he muttered.

But Hermia only stood smiling and curtsied again.

"Merci, Monsieur. You pay a high tribute to the skill of my hands. I did the best I could—and as for the matter of that," pertly, "so did the bon Dieu."

He laughed gaily. Her ready tongue delighted him, but his face sobered as he glanced at Markham, who stood with narrowed gazed fixed on the road ahead of them.

"You pass through Verneuil, Mademoiselle?" the motorist went on. "Perhaps Monsieur your companion would not object if we carried you there."

"You are very kind, Monsieur, but riding in such state is not for me."

"Allons! You will be doing us the favor of your company."

"I should be frightened at the great speed."

"Oh, I will run very slowly, I promise you."

She seemed to hesitate and Markham's head slowly turned toward her, a wonder growing in his eyes. Could she? Did she really think of going? She looked at the machine and then at Markham and Clarissa.

"I will go—upon one condition," she announced.

"Mademoiselle has but to name it."

"And that is, Monsieur, that you will also carry in your automobile Monsieur Philidor and the donkey."

He looked at her a moment as if he hadn't believed his own ears, while his companion burst into wild laughter.

"TouchŽ, mon ami," he cried, clapping the chauffeur on the back. "My faith, but she has a pretty wit—the donkey and Monsieur Philidor—par exemple!" And he roared with laughter again.

The man at the wheel flecked his cigarette into the bushes, smiling with as good grace as he could command.

"You have many chaperons, Mademoiselle," he said. "It is too bad. I shall remember your beaux yeux, just the same."

He waved a hand, then, opening the cutout, drove the machine forward and in a moment was out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Markham grinned at the departing vehicle and then, turning, met Hermia's gleaming eyes.

"O mon ami, it is to laugh!" she cried. "Imagine Clarissa seated in the tonneau of that machine entering the gates of Verneuil! If you have any doubt about getting the better of a Frenchman just set him up to ridicule."

She began laughing again, her eyes on Markham.

"My poor Philidor! Did you think I was about to desert you—and Clarissa? You were really quite angry for a moment."

"He was impertinent," growled Markham.

"To Hermia—but not to Yvonne."

"You're both."

"Oh, this will never do at all! You mustn't fly at the throat of every man who takes a fancy to me."

"I don't—but the man—is what is called a gentleman. There's a difference." And while she hesitated for a reply.

"What did he mean by saying that he had seen you before?" he asked.

"Just that. He had. I remembered him perfectly. He's the Marquis de Folligny."

"Pierre de Folligny!" in amazement. "Not Olga's Pierre de Folligny?"

"The same. I knew him instantly. I met him in London, at an evening garden party. That is why I didn't want you to make any trouble."

"De Folligny! I have met him. He used to wear a beard."

"Yes, when you didn't."

"I see." And then after a pause. "I thought he was one of that Trouville crowd."

"He is, I think. How lucky I hadn't seen him there!"

They walked along for some moments in silence, Markham slowly stuffing tobacco into his pipe, his gaze upon the ground.

"Hermia," he said briefly at last, "you'll have to be careful."

"Well—aren't I?" reproachfully.

"I'm not sure it's wise of us to pass through the larger towns."

"Why not?"

"You might be recognized."

"I'll have to take that chance. If you remove the element of danger you take away half the charm of our pilgrimage."

"I'd rather the danger were mine—not yours," he said soberly.

She laughed at his uneasiness. "I've absolved you from all responsibility. You are merely my Oedipus, the vade mecum of my unsentimental journey."

But he didn't laugh.

"I'll warrant you De Folligny doesn't think that," he said.

"Well—suppose he doesn't. Are you and I responsible for the unpleasant cast of other people's thoughts? My conscience is clear. So is yours. You know how unsentimental our journey is. So do I. Why, Philidor, can't you see? It wouldn't be quite right if it wasn't unsentimental."

"And how about my—er—my shrinking susceptibilities?" he asked.

"Oh, that! You are losing your sense of humor," she said promptly. "The worst of your enemies or the best of your friends would hardly call you sentimental. I could not feel safer on that score if I were under the motherly wing of Aunt Harriett Westfield!"

She was a bundle of contradictions and said exactly what came into her head. He examined her again, not sure whether it were better to be annoyed or merely amused, and saw again the wide violet gaze. He looked away but he didn't seem quite happy.

"I suppose that would be the truth," he said slowly. "Unfortunately our vulgar conventions make no such nice distinctions."

"But what is the difference if we make them?"

"None, of course. But I would much prefer it if we gave Verneuil a wide berth."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. Fate is always kind to the utterly irresponsible. That's their compensation for being so. What does it matter to-morrow so long as we are happy to-day?"

His expression softened.

"You are still contented then?"

"Blissfully so. Don't I look it?"

"If you didn't I wouldn't dare to ask you."

By ten o'clock Hermia was hungry again and when they came to a small village she vowed that without food she would walk no more.

"Very well then," said Markham. "We must earn the right to do it."

They found a small auberge before which Hermia unpacked her orchestra and played. A crowd of women and children soon surrounded them, and the sounds of the drum brought the curious from the fields and more distant houses. The patronne came out and Philidor offered to do her portrait for ten sous.

They were lucky. When the hat was passed they found the total returns upon their venture, including the portrait, were one franc and thirty centimes. This paid for their share of the ragožt, some cheese, bread and a liter of wine. When they got up to go, such was the immediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons came with the money in their hands to sit to him. But he shook his head. He would be back this way, perhaps—but now—no—they must be upon their way. And so amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries of children and the barking of dogs they took to the road again.

CHAPTER XVI

MANET CICATRIX

Olga Tcherny sat at a long window in the villa of the Duchesse d'Orsay and looked out over the sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea. Trouville was gay. The strand was flecked with the bright colors of fashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along the margin of the waves, basking in the warm sun, recuperating from the rigors of the Parisian spring. White sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild air stirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undulated lightly, their borders flapping joyously with a frivolous disregard for the somber mood of the guest of the house.

Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible. Her horizon was inward and limitless, and though she looked outward she saw nothing. Her brows were tangled, the scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin line slightly depressed at the outer corners and the toe of her small slipper tapped noiselessly upon the rug. It was nothing, of course, to be bored, for when she was not gay she was always bored; but there was a deeper discontent in her whole attitude that that which comes from mere ennui, an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, a kind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate incentive to become dangerous. Upon the dressing-table beside her was Hermia Challoner's telegram, explaining her failure to reach Trouville; in her fingers a letter from a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham's visit to that city and of his departure. Both the telegram and the letter were much crumpled, showing that they had been taken out and read before. There seemed no doubt about it now. John Markham had received her letters announcing her arrival in Normandy and had in spite of them fled from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, where neither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted person could reach him. She had hoped that Hermia's arrival from Paris would have made existence at Trouville at least bearable, but Hermia's change of mind explained by the belated telegram had made it evident that Fate was conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience. To make matters the worse the Duchesse had taken upon herself an attack of the gout which made her insupportable, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usual refuse in hours like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at the Ch‰teau of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors.

Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, jealous as she was of the years between them, Hermia always added a definite note of color to her surroundings, or a leaven of madness—which made even sanity endurable. There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a dreary waste of the usual—the beach, the inevitable sea, the Casino, tea, more beach, with intervals of fretful piquet with the Duchesse, an outlook both gloomy and disheartening. Indeed it had been some weeks now since things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, never proof against continued disappointment, was almost at the point of exhaustion. The letters she had written John Markham, one from New York telling of her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping to see him at her hotel, a third from Trouville, assuming the miscarriage of the other two—cool, friendly notes, tinetured with a nonchalance she was far from feeling, had failed of their purpose, and save for a brief letter telling of his departure form Rouen, he had not given the slightest evidence of his appreciation of her efforts toward a platonic reconciliation. She had not despaired of him and did not despair of him now, for it was one of her maxims that a clever woman—a woman as clever as she was—could have any man in the world if she set her cap for him.

Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself with the thought that all she needed was opportunity, which being offered, she would succeed in her object, by fair means if she could, by other means if she must. She smiled a little as she thought how easily she could have conquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the use of her weapons. She could have won him at "Wake Robin" if some silly Quixotism hadn't steeled her breast against him—more than tat, she knew that in spite of herself she would have won him if it hadn't been for Hermia. Hermia had discovered a remarkable faculty for unconsciously interfering with her affairs. Unconsciously? It seemed so—and yet—

The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a moment and then stopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in a slow smile. It was curious about Hermia—there were moments when Olga had caught herself wondering whether Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elusive philosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to Europe had been made with a suddenness which left her motives open to suspicion. Olga had learned from Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes had passed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, whatever the indifference of her successes as a hairdresser, had a useful skill at surreptitious investigation. This morning Georgette had received a note from Titine who was in Paris where she had been left by her mistress to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Titine had expressed bewilderment at the disappearance of her mistress, who had left Paris in her new machine with the avowed intention of reaching Trouville by night. Georgette had imparted this information to Madame while she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the hours passed Olga found her mind dwelling more insistently on the possible reasons for Hermia's change of plans. Where was she? And who was with her? Olga ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaintances and seemed to be able to account for the where-abouts or engagements of all those who might have been her companions.

What if— She started impatiently, walked across the room and looked out into the Duchesse's rose garden. Really, Markham's importance in her scheme of things was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated her that this obsession was warping her judgment to the point of imagining impossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The idea was absurd. And yet somehow it persisted. She turned on her heel and paced the floor of the room rapidly two or three times. She paused for a moment at her dressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang for her maid.

"Georgette," she announced, "I shall have no need of you for a day or two. I would like you to go to Paris,"

Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with difficulty. To invite a French maid to go to Paris is like beckoning her within the gates of Paradise.

"Oui, Madame."

"I need two hats, a parasol and some shoes. You are to go at once."

"Bien, Madame."

"You know what I desire?"

"Oh, oui, parfaitement, Madam—a hat for the green afternoon robe and one of white—"

"And a parasol of the same color, shoes—of suede with the new heel, dancing slippers of white satin and a pair of pumps."

"I comprehend perfectly."

"You are to return her to-morrow. The train leaves in an hour. That is all."

Georgette withdrew to the door but as she was about to lay her hand upon the knob she paused.

"And, Georgette," her mistress was saying lazily, "you will see Titine, will you not?"

"If I have the time, Madame—"

"If you should see Titine, Georgette, will you not inquire where and with whom Miss Challoner has gone automobiling?"

The eyes of the maid showed a look of comprehension, quickly veiled. "I shall make it a point to do so, Madame."

Olga yawned and looked out the window.

"Oh, it isn't so important as that—but, Georgette, if you could—discreetly, Georgette—"

"I comprehend, Madame."

When she was gone Olga threw herself on a couch upon the terrace and read a French Play just published. There was a heroine with a past who loved quite madly a young man with a future and she succeeded in killing his love for her by the simple expedient of telling him the truth. At this point Olga dropped the book upon the flagging and sat up abruptly, her face set in rigid lines.

Silly fool! What more right had he to her past than she had to his. The world had changed since that had been the code of life. That code was a relic of the dark ages when the Tree of Knowledge grew only in the Garden of Eden. Now the Tree of Knowledge grew in every man's garden and in every woman's.

She marveled that a dramatist of modern France could have gone back into the past for such a theme. It was the desire to seem original, of course, to be different from other writers—an affectation of na•vetŽ, quite out of keeping with the spirit of the hour—unintelligent as well as uninteresting. (You see Olga didn't believe in the double standard.)

She got up, spurning the guilty volume with her foot and walked out into the rose garden. But their odor made her unhappy and she went indoors. She began now to regret that she had not gone down to the house party of Madeleine de Cahors at Alen�on. At least Pierre de Folligny would have been there—Chandler Cushing, and the Renauds—a jolly crowd of people among whom there was never time to think of one's troubles—still less to brood over them as she had been doing to-day.

The return of her maid from Paris added something to the sum of her information. Miss Challoner had left her hotel at ten in the morning in her new machine with an intention of making a record to Trouville. Titine was to follow her there when the shopping should be finished. In the meanwhile a telegram had come dated at Passy, telling of the change in plans, with orders for Titine to remain in Paris until further notice. Several days had passed and Titine still waited in Miss Challoner's apartment at the hotel which was costing, so Titine related, three hundred francs a day. It was all quite mystifying and Titine was worried, but then Mademoiselle was no longer a child and, of course, Titine had only to obey orders.

Olga listened carelessly, examining Georgette's purchases, and when the maid had gone she sat for a long time in her chair by the window thinking.

At last she got up suddenly, went down into the library and found the paper booklet of the _Chemins de Fer de l'ƒtat. In this there was a map of Normandy and Brittany and after a long search she found the name she was looking for—Passy—south from Evreux on the road to Dreux—this was the town from which Hermia's telegram to Titine had been sent.

Olga's long polished finger nail shuttled back and forth. Here was Paris, there Rouen, here Evreux—there Alen�on. Curious! Hermia with her machine doing in half a day from Paris what John Markham had taken four days from Rouen to do afoot. What more improbable? And yet entirely possible!

She took the livret to her room where she could examine it at her ease and sent to the garage for a road map which had been left in the car of the Duchesse. The livret and map she compared, and diligently studied, arriving, toward the middle of the afternoon, at a sudden resolution.

CHAPTER XVII

PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES

Had Yvonne needed encouragement in her career as a bread-winner her success of the morning had filled her with confidence. She had earned the right to live for this day at least, and looked forward to the morrow with joyous enthusiasm. Philidor, who still confessed to the possession of a few francs of their original capital, was for putting up at a small hotel or inn and paying for this accommodation out of principal. But Yvonne would not have it so. The sum they had earned for the ragožt had filled her with pride and cupidity, had developed a niggardly desire to hoard their sous against a rainy day. They had earned the right to lunch. They must also earn the right to dine and sleep!

Late in the afternoon they came to a small village where a crowd of idlers soon surrounded them. Philidor unpacked Clarissa and recited in a loud tone the now familiar inventory of their artistic achievements and Yvonne, smiling, donned her orchestra, tuned her mandolin and played. The audience jested and paid her pretty compliments, and joined with a good will in the familiar choruses. And for his part, Philidor made a lightning sketch of an ancien who stood by, leaning upon his stick, which brought him several other commissions at ten sous the portrait. "Reduced rates!" he cried. "Bien entendu!" For to-morrow at Verneuil would the people not pay him two francs fifty? This final argument was convincing to their frugal souls, and he sat upon a chair until sunset making VallŽcy immortal. Philidor was too busy even to pass the hat for the musical part of the performances, so Yvonne did it herself, returning with two francs, all in coppers. When this was added to the earnings of Philidor, they found that in just two hours the princely sum of six francs had been earned.

"To-night," whispered Philidor, "you shall sleep in a chamber once occupied by the Grand Monarch at the very least. We are tasting success, Yvonne."

"Yes—and it's good—but I've learned a healthy scorn of beds. You, of course shall rest where you please, but as for me—I've an ungovernable desire to sleep in a hay-mow."

"But hay-mows are not for those who can earn six francs in two hours. We are rich," he cried, "and who knows what to-morrow may bring besides!"

They compromised. The ancien to whom Markham applied in this difficulty offered them bed and board for the small sum of two francs each, and accordingly they made way to his house. The ancien was a person of some substance in the community as they soon discovered, for his house, the last one at the end of the street, was a two storied affair and boasted of a wall at the side which inclosed a vegetable patch and a small flower garden at the back. M�re GuŽgou, a woman younger than her lord, looked at them askance until her good man exhibited the portrait by Monsieur Philidor, when she burst into smiles and hospitality.

Oui, bien sžr, there were rooms. This was no auberge, that was understood, but the house was very large for two old people. Yes, they rented the spare rooms by the month. Just now they were fortunately empty. Did Monsieur desire two rooms or one?

"Two," said Philidor promptly. "We will pay of course."

He hesitated and M�re GuŽgou examined them with new interest, but Yvonne, with great presence of mind, flew to the rescue.

"We—we are not married yet, Madam," she said flushing adorably. "One day—perhaps—"

"Soon—Madame," put in Philidor, rising to the situation with alacrity. "We shall be married soon."

Madame GuŽgou beamed with delight.

"Tiens! C'est joli, �a! GuŽgou!" she called. "We must kill a chicken and cut some haricots and a lettuce. They shall dine well in VallŽcy—these two."

GuŽgou grinned toothlessly from the doorway of the shed where he was stabling Clarissa, and then hobbled his way up to the garden.

When M�re GuŽgou went into the kitchen to prepare the dinner, Yvonne and Philidor walked through the garden to a small rustic arbor at the end which looked down over a meadow and a stream.

"I hope the bon Dieu will forgive me that fib," she laughed.

"It was no fib at all." And as her eyes widened, "You merely said that we hadn't been married yet. We haven't you know," he laughed.

Her look passed his face and sought the saffron heavens across which the swallows were wheeling high above the tree tops.

"Obviously," she said coolly. "Nowadays one only marries when every other possibility of existence is exhausted."

He examined her gravely.

"The bon Dieu will not forgive you that," he said slowly.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't mean what you say. Whatever Hermia was—Yvonne at least is honest. She knows as I do that she will not marry for the reasons you mention."

She accepted his reproof smilingly and thrust out her hand—a browner hand now, a ringless, earnest little hand—and put it into his.

"You are right, Philidor, I shall marry—if I may—for love. Or—I shall not marry at all."

He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize her fingers she had eluded him.

"But I'm not ready yet, Philidor," she laughed, "and when I am I shall not seek a husband on the highroads of Vagabondia."

Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were mingled craft and artlessness with a touch of dignity to make it unassailable. But in a moment she was laughing gaily. "Whom shall it be? Cleofonte is married. Luigi? He has a temper—"

"Marry me! You might do worse," he said suddenly.

Her face changed color and the laughter died on her lips.

"You? O Philidor!"

She turned away from him and looked up at the sky.

"I—I mean it," he repeated. "I think you had better."

He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch.

"Fate has thrown us together—twice. Its intention is obvious. Let Fate look after the rest—"

"You, Philidor. Oh—"

She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he only held her hand more tightly.

"Don't child. I did not mean to frighten you. I would not hurt you for anything in the world. I thought you needed me—"

At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face toward him and he saw that she was shaking, not with sobs, but with merriment.

"O Philidor—such a wooing! You'd marry me because I need you. Was ever a dependent female in such a position!" And she began laughing again, her whole figure shaking. "I need you—forsooth! How do you know I do? Have I told you so?" she asked scornfully.

"You need me," he repeated doggedly.

"And that is why I should marry you? You who preach the gospel of sincerity and love for love's sake?"

"I—I love you," he stammered.

But she only laughed at him the more.

"You. You wear your passion lightly. Such a tempestuous wooing! You ask me to marry you because you fear I might do worse—because you believe that I'm irresponsible, and that without you I'll end in spiritual beggary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenuous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expediency or marriage a search for a guardian. If they were, mon ami, I should have long ago married my Trust Company. You—John Markham!"

He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers clasped over his knees, his gaze upon the field below them, his mind recalling unpleasantly a similar incident in his unromantic career. Hermia had stopped laughing, had left him suddenly and was now picking one of P�re GuŽgou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him to the quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and rendered him incapable of reply, but curiously enough he now felt neither anger nor chagrin at her contempt—only a deep dismay that he had spoken the words that had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy the joy of their fellowship which had owed its very existence to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He knew that, however awkwardly he had expressed it, he had spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since Thimble Island, when she had spoiled his foreground by eliminating every detail of foreground and background by becoming both. Since then to him she had always been Joy, Gayety, Innocence, Enchantment and he adored her in secret.

Since they had met in France he had guarded the secret carefully—often by an air of indifference which fitted him well, a relic of his years of seclusion, and a native awkwardness which was always more or less in evidence before women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessed the opportunity which chance and her own wild will had thrown in his way. And now—she would leave him, of course. There was nothing left for her to do.

Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came within the range of their vision, first to her shoes, then to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met her eyes, which were smiling at him saucily over the rosebud which she was holding to her lips. But he only sat glowering stupidly at her.

"O Philidor!" she cried. "You look just as you did on the night when I slipped down through the pergola."

"Hermia!" He rose and approached her. "I forbid you."

She retreated slowly, brandishing the blossom beneath his nose.

"Without—er—the face powder!"

"You have no right to speak of that."

"Oh, haven't I? You've just given it to me."

"How?"

"By proving to me that I wasn't mistaken in you. O Philidor, did you propose to her, too, from purely philanthropic—"

"Stop!" He seized her by both wrists and held her straight in front of him, while he looked squarely into her eyes. "You shall not speak—"

"Or was it because she 'needed' you, Philidor, as I do?"

"There's nothing between Olga and me," he said violently. "There never was—"

"Face powder," she repeated.

"Listen to me. You shall," fiercely. "You've got to know the truth now. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never has been another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have—from the first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here—in Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong. I wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of your fashionable set—to see the woman in you bud and blossom under the open skies away from the hothouse plants of your vicious circle. Even there at 'Wake Robin,' I wanted to tear you away from them. They were not your kind. In the end you would have been the same as they. That was the pity of it. Perhaps it was pity that first taught me how much you were to me—how much you were worth saving from them—from yourself. I seemed impossible. I was nothing to you then—less than I am now—a queer sort of an amphibious beast that had left its more familiar element and taken to walks abroad among the elect of the earth. But I loved you then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I hadn't meant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you know it—even though your smiles deride me; even though I know I've spoiled your idyl here and made a mockery of my own Fool's Paradise."

Her head was lowered now and he could not see her eyes, but he was sure they must be still laughing at him. When he had finished he released her and turned away.

"To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil," he said quietly. "I will give you money to buy clothes and put you on the train for Paris."

There was a long silence, broken by the sound of P�re GuŽgou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The saffron heavens had changed to purple, and in the spire of the village campanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes of Philidor's doom. He did not see her face. He had not dared to look at it. But when the bell stopped ringing, Hermia's voice was speaking softly.

"Do you want me to go, Philidor?"

Her tone still mocked and he did not turn toward her.

"No—but you had better," he murmured.

"Suppose I refused to go to Paris. What would you do?"

He did not reply.

"Could you treat me so? Is it my fault that you—you fell in love with me? I'm not responsible for that—am I? I didn't make you do it, did I? Would you have me give up all this? Think a moment, Philidor. Wouldn't it be cruel of you—after letting me be what I am—after letting me know what I can be—after giving me an ego, an individuality, and making me a success in life—to send me back to Paris to be a mere nonentity? You couldn't, I'll not go."