"I was not," said the girl. Then looking up at the marble god, "I don't care for this one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot his arrowsno, indeed, he is a coward;he creeps up like an assassin in the twilight. I don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and turned her back on the statue. "I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairlyyes, and even gives one warning." "Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?" He looked straight into her eyes and said, "He is warning me." "Heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying, "Oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled it, and finally looked at him. "No," he said, "I shall not heed his warning." "Oh dear," she sighed again, "still talking about that tiresome statue!" Then stealing a glance at his face, "I supposeI suppose you are in love." "I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am." She raised her head with a quick gesture. "You seem delighted at the idea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering shadows. "Are you cold?" he said. But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is lateso late! I must gogoodnight." She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start. "What is it?" he insisted. "Are you frightened?" She looked at him strangely. "Nononot frightened,you are very good to me" "By Jove!" he burst out, "what do you mean by saying I'm good to you? That's at least the third time, and I don't understand!" The sound of a drum from the guardhouse at the palace cut him short. "Listen," she whispered, "they are going to close. It's late, oh, so late!" The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the echoes struck back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up before themhis red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettes tossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels began the monotonous cry "On ferme! on ferme!" and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de Tournon. "On ferme! on ferme!" "Goodnight," she whispered, "I must return alone tonight." He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonets warned him away. She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici, traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of violets and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des coles. A cab was drawn up before Boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott jumped out. "Valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!" "I can't," she said, stopping a moment"I have a rendezvous at Mignon's." "Not Victor?" cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little shiver, nodding goodnight, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain, she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the Caf Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant Mignon stood a coalblack negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as she mounted the carpeted stairs. "Send Eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through the hallway to the right of the diningroom stopped before a row of panelled doors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, who presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "Madame." "Who is here?" "No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set." Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "Monsieur awaits madame since half an hour," and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing the number six. Clifford opened the door and the girl entered. The garon bowed her in, and whispering, "Will Monsieur have the goodness to ring?" vanished. He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Waiting," he replied, in accents of adoration. For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her pretty neck and back. "Thus do I turn my back on vanity," she said, and then leaning forward again, "What are you doing here?" "Waiting for you," repeated Clifford, slightly troubled. "And Ccile." "Now don't, Valentine" "Do you know," she said calmly, "I dislike your conduct?" He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion. The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp. "Valentine," said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, "is it the Vaudeville or the Eldoradoor both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or" "It is here," said Valentine. "Well," he said, greatly flattered, "I'm afraid I couldn't amuse you" "Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado." "Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,you know what they say,a good laugh kills" "What?" "Ererlove and all that." She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "Tiens," she cried, "he is dead, then!" Clifford eyed her with growing alarm. "Do you know why I came?" she said. "No," he replied uneasily, "I don't." "How long have you made love to me?" "Well," he admitted, somewhat startled,"I should say,for about a year." "It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?" He did not answer. "Don't you know that I like you too well toto ever fall in love with you?" she said. "Don't you know that we are too good comrades,too old friends for that? And were we not,do you think that I do not know your history, Monsieur Clifford?" "Don't bedon't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind, Valentine." "I'm not. I'm kind. I'm very kind,to you and to Ccile." "Ccile is tired of me." "I hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most inconstant,utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a summer night. Poor Ccile!" Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly. "I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child here. Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but every one cannot be a victim to caprice." "Caprice!" he cried. "By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not capricious" "Never mind,never mind about that! You must not sit in judgmentyou of all men. Why are you here tonight? Oh," she cried, "I will tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment" "I don't," said Clifford, very red. "You do, and it becomes you," she retorted with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, "I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,and it is because of that that I am here to beg of youaa favour." Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing. "I am ingreat distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings." "Well?" said Clifford, in some astonishment. "I want to ask you," she continued in a low voice, "I want to ask you totoin case you should speak of me before him,not to say,not to say," "I shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly. "Cancan you prevent others?" "I might if I was present. May I ask why?" "That is not fair," she murmured; "you know howhow he considers me,as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I have never seen a man,such a man as Monsieur Hastings." He let his cigarette go out unnoticed. "I am almost afraid of himafraid he should knowwhat we all are in the Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him toto turn from meto cease from speaking to me as he does! Youyou and the rest cannot know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,I could not believe he was so good andand noble. I do not wish him to knowso soon. He will find outsooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. Why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn from me and not from you?" Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette. The girl rose, very white. "He is your friendyou have a right to warn him." "He is my friend," he said at length. They looked at each other in silence. Then she cried, "By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn him!" "I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly. V The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite impressions after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he escaped from the caf where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a bock he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once. Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare. It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Htel Terminus and took a table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder and a hearty, "What the deuce are you doing here, old chap?" It was Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting, he was ushered into a private diningroom where Clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should make one of the party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly outlined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Ccile and Colette and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it. "You shut up," he observed to Clifford, "it's fate, and that settles it." "It's Rowden, and that settles it," murmured Clifford, concealing a grin. For after all he was not Hastings' wet nurse. So it came about that the train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its career towards Havre and deposited at the redroofed station of La Roche a merry party, armed with sunshades, troutrods, and one cane, carried by the noncombatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command. "You, Rowden," he said, "divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on him or else he'll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent him by force from grubbing about for worms." Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh. "You make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?" "I shall be delighted to see your first trout," said Clifford, and dodging a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Ccile, Colette, and Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float. "I shall never touch the worms," announced Ccile with a shudder. Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and takeroff of fish. But Ccile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford's book, decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow. Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette. "I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?" "Certainly," responded Jacqueline. Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel. "You've got your reel on wrong side up," observed Rowden. Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette. "IIhave almost decided toernot to flip the flies about just now," he began. "There's the pole that Ccile left" "Don't call it a pole," corrected Rowden. "Rod, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden. "No, you don't! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hand! You come along!" Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the Seine, a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a halfsuppressed scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black and white flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees, and a lowsailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds. Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came faintly, the shrill cockcrow and dull baying. Now and then a steamtug with big raking smokepipe, bearing the name "Gupe 27," ploughed up the river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped down with the current toward sleepy Rouen. A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the sunlight, orangetipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods. Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o'clock when Elliott strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction. "Where are your trout?" said Colette severely. "They still live," murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep. Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the slumbering one, displayed three crimsonflecked trout. "And that," smiled Hastings lazily, "that is the holy end to which the faithful plod,the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and feather." Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford and Ccile came up demanding instant refreshment. Ccile's skirts were soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out a twopound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company. "Where the deuce did you get that?" demanded Elliott. Ccile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout. They were all very happy at luncheon, and Hastings was voted "charming." He enjoyed it immensely,only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought that Ccile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden, and that possibly Colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes from Elliott's face. Still he enjoyed itexcept when his thoughts drifted to Valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick heartbeat when, at eight o'clock that night the train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he was once more in the city of Valentine. "Goodnight," they said, pressing around him. "You must come with us next time!" He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city, and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard was twinkling with gasjets through which the electric lights stared like moons. VI It was with another quick heartbeat that he awoke next morning, for his first thought was of Valentine. The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen's sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills. He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul's sake. He found Alfred the gimleteyed washing the asphalt walk which led to the studio. "Monsieur Elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "je ne sais pas." "And Monsieur Clifford," began Hastings, somewhat astonished. "Monsieur Clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in." Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court. "I do not think I will come in," said Hastings. "Pardon, monsieur," growled the concierge, "perhaps it would be well to see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with hairbrushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something with his candle." Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a mission, walked slowly through the ivycovered alley and across the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again, and this time something struck the door from within with a crash. "That," said the concierge, "was a boot." He fitted his duplicate key into the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and did not appear astonished to see Hastings. "Goodmorning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of his hand and a vaguer smile. Hastings' heart sank. "For Heaven's sake," he said, "Clifford, go to bed." "Not while thatthat Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' I have a shoe left." Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford's hat and cane, and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, "This is terrible, Clifford,Inever knew you did this sort of thing." "Well, I do," said Clifford. "Where is Elliott?" "Ole chap," returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, "Providence which feedsfeedsersparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the intemperate wanderer" "Where is Elliott?" But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "He's out there,somewhere about." Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him. Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word. Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened up and rose with great precaution. "Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see erer miracle? Well, here goes. I'm goin' to begin." He paused, beaming at vacancy. "Er miracle," he repeated. Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his balance, and said nothing. "I'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole Clifford's goin' to bed, an' that's er miracle!" And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to assist en connaisseur. But he was not. He had not yet reached the studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a tolerably true course for the rue Vavin. Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god. The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers. Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their irishued breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking their dustcoloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duckpond opposite the fountain of Marie de Medici, the waterfowl cropped the herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise. Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilac leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight toward some sunwarmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brickcoloured eyes sat in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their forelegs, exulting. The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to look toward the guardhouse for their relief. They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch, across the gravel. A mellow chime floated from the clocktower of the palace, the deep bell of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. At first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprang up. "You! At this hour?" "I was restless, I could not sleep." Then in a low, happy voice"And you! at this hour?" "II slept, but the sun awoke me." "I could not sleep," she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment, touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, "I am so gladI seemed to know you were coming. Don't laugh, I believe in dreams." "Did you really dream of,of my being here?" "I think I was awake when I dreamed it," she admitted. Then for a time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together. And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings' lips bore direct reference to breakfast. "I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material man you are." "Valentine," he said impulsively, "I wish,I do wish that you would,just for this once,give me the whole day,just for this once." "Oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!" "Not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her. "A cannibal too; oh dear!" "Will you, Valentine?" "But my chocolate" "Take it with me." "But djeuner" "Together, at St. Cloud." "But I can't" "Together,all day,all day long; will you, Valentine?" She was silent. "Only for this once." Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone she sighed. "Yes,together, only for this once." "All day?" he said, doubting his happiness. "All day," she smiled; "and oh, I am so hungry!" He laughed, enchanted. "What a material young lady it is." On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crmerie painted white and blue outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburnhaired young woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc ttette table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons. The primrosecoloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures. "How delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the coincidence. "With but a single thought," he began. "How absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "I'm thinking I'd like a croisson." "So am I," he replied triumphant, "that proves it." Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry "Bonjour, madame! bonjour, monsieur!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. "Dieu! qu'il est beau," she sighed, adding after a moment, "Do they be married, I dunno,ma foi ils ont bien l'air." The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last note from the startinggong rang through the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl's forehead. "We have the compartment to ourselves," said Hastings. She leaned against the cushioned windowseat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long hatpin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was flying. The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quickdrawn breath, her breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles. "Faster! faster!" she cried. His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead,something which came no nearer, but fled before them as they fled. Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghostlike, slipping through the vaguer blue above? "Faster! faster!" she cried. Her parted lips burned scarlet. The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed. "Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing him to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!" He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle, but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind whistled in their ears. "Not so far out, Valentine, take care!" he gasped. Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist, crying, "Not too far!" but she only murmured, "Faster! faster! away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!" "What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat. She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the halfparted lips, and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not thatnot that!" But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and passion, and when she sobbed"Not thatnot thatI have promised! You mustyou must knowI amnotworthy" In the purity of his own heart her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after. Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "I cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my mastermaster of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I have told you all;what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence and she worshipped his. She spoke again "Take me or cast me away;what matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die than to look upon happiness as great as mine." He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,look out at the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so bright a world." She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed very fair to her. Trembling with happiness, she sighed "Is this the world? Then I have never known it." "Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured. Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both. RUE BARRE "For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will and what they will not,each Is but one link in an eternal chain That none can slip nor break nor overreach." "Crimson nor yellow roses nor The savour of the mounting sea Are worth the perfume I adore That clings to thee. The languidheaded lilies tire, The changeless waters weary me; I ache with passionate desire Of thine and thee. There are but these things in the world Thy mouth of fire, Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled And my desire.


" I One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is Foxhall Clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an easel, doing nothing. Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began "My name is Selby,I have just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction" His voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight. "It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the majestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say "My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?" "Of course." "And you don't mind chaff?" "No," replied Selby, who hated it. Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it at first." Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door. As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau! Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened but looked at Clifford. "Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing. A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio. "Et moi?" cried the model. "You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the studio rose as one man, shouting "He has done well! he's all right!" while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried " demain beau jeune homme!" All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The Prodigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to "Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately relapsed to "Kid." Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students writhed under his biting sarcasms,among the others Clifford, who was informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a noncommittal gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and depart. The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on, wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone. Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place du Chtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock and turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly waterspitting griffins, the hill of the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by two, and the tablelined terraces of the Caf Vacehett were nothing to him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the frontier and entered the student zone,the famous Latin Quarter. A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head, invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her own reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks. Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on. Clifford, openmouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue de Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to be unsatisfactory. "I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my life,neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration can do." He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down under the awning of the Caf du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley Rowden." The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth. "You cut the studio today," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford, who avoided his eyes. "To commune with nature?" observed Rowden. "What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly, "Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton" "Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barre." The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for fame. The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east, crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the cole de Mdecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford smirked, Elliott and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake the others. "By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest girl" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the chorus in a Greek play. "Rue Barre!" "What!" cried Selby, bewildered. The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford. Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "You want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about." "Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is she?" In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness. "Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he added with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her musicroll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know her,Rue Barre. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry" "I didn't," said Rowden hotly. "And Roo Barry, or Rue Barre, is today an object of adoration to every rapin in the Quarter" "We are not rapins," corrected Elliott. "I am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention, Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barre. The lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and," here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice." Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!" "I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in." II Twentyfour hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barre. During the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday night found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning, apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barre, and ten seconds afterwards he saw her. It was at the flowermarket on the marble bridge. She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrown heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barre shook her head. It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to inspect a cabbagerose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of the previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with the exception of a henturkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly curious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal it. But, to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. Under a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring had come,was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spread freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive, and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The whitespiked chestnuts clad in tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted their winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky. Selby looked at the cabbagerose and then at the sky. Something in the song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that dangerous sweetness in the air of May. At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped, then he was scarcely conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he thought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barre. The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of pansies." Rue Barre shook her head. The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler toward a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazed about him. "These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths" He fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets. "That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rosebush with her furled parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticed it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it, and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. Still, to do him justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming. "Fifty francs, Mademoiselle." The gardener's tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted. They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize his prize,the rosetree was gorgeous and any one could see it. "I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a worn purse. Then she looked up. A teardrop stood in the way refracting the light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked at him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barre had been gone some time. "What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?" Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardener was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the calling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice. "These tulips are magnificent!" "They are!" cried Selby warmly. "But alas, they are dear." "I will take them." "Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most Englishmen." "This cactus" "Is gorgeous!" "Alas" "Send it with the rest." The gardener braced himself against the river wall. "That splendid rosebush," he began faintly. "That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs" He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden cool selfpossession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held the gardener with his eye, and bullied him. "I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?" "Mademoiselle is not wealthy." "How do you know?" "Dame, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive." "Those are the pansies she bought?" "These, Monsieur, the blue and gold." "Then you intend to send them to her?" "At midday after the market." "Take this rosebush with them, and"here he glared at the gardener"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyes were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said "Send the others to the Htel du Snat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the concierge." Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes later he sat in his room in the Htel du Snat repeating with an imbecile smile "What an ass I am, what an ass!" An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile and even a bit retrospective. III About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sadeyed woman who fills the position of concierge at the Htel du Snat held up her hands in amazement to see a wagonload of flowerbearing shrubs draw up before the doorway. She called Joseph, the intemperate garon, who, while calculating the value of the flowers in petits verres, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination. "Voyons," said the little concierge, "cherchons la femme!" "You?" he suggested. The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display. Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other. Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral fte burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus. "Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford. "Nno,I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked enthusiasm. "I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus." Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur, and pricked his thumb. Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill, announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford, partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a pourboire which he would share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus. Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting as far as"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at the back of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perkedup ears seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he fell a prey. The last straw was added. "Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against his will,against his own instinct of selfpreservation, but the thorns on the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pentup wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled around. "See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?" "I'm fond of them," said Selby. "What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here." "I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed." "Where can you put them?" "Couldn't I give them to the concierge?" As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name would Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation. Then somebody knocked. Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young man's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication. Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?" This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter. "It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack. "Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly." Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle. Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!" "You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others. "We know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis. "Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs." "Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden; then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?" "See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?" Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette, while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?" "Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured since Rue Barre sat on him." Elliott raised his voice "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried into Rue Barre's house at noon." "Posies and roses," specified Rowden. "Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog. Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled. IV Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students with prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at rollcall; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty exmodel, who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at one sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the battling hordes in search of prey. Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution assuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!" Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an atmosphere of peace and goodwill. The lions sat down with the lambs, the massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting the model stands, opened the rollcalls. The word was passed, "They begin with C this week." They did. "Clisson!" Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk before a front seat. "Caron!" Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "Nom de Dieu!" in French,"Where in hl are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "Dieu de Dieu de" spat! A blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier, stern and reproachful "Cochon!" Then the rollcall was resumed. "Clifford!" The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the ledger. "Clifford!" Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,on the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott was reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subdued his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance toward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles. The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Clifford might here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had he but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were anywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelled and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a thousand perfumes which stirred Clifford with languorous wistfulness. Under this influence he spoke. "Elliott, you are a true friend" "You make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "It's just as I thought,you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And," he continued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from Julian's for,if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot" "Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently. "See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that you are in love again?" "Again?" "Yes, again and again and again andby George have you?" "This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious." For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from sheer helplessness. "Oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's Clmence and Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier" "All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious" "So help me, Moses," said Elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of those named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have also made me lose my place at Julian's in this same manner; each and every one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?" "What you say may be founded on factsin a waybut give me the credit of being faithful to one at a time" "Until the next came along." "But this,this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am all broken up." Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and listened. "It'sit's Rue Barre." "Well," observed Elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning over that girl,the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wish that the ground would open and engulf us,well, go on!" "I'm going on,I don't care; timidity has fled" "Yes, your native timidity." "I'm desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so dn miserable. I can't sleep; honestly, I'm incapable of eating properly." "Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette." "Listen, will you?" "Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you something. Is it your belief that Rue Barre is a pure girl?" "Yes," said Clifford, turning red. "Do you love her,not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty inanityI mean, do you honestly love her?" "Yes," said the other doggedly, "I would" "Hold on a moment; would you marry her?" Clifford turned scarlet. "Yes," he muttered. "Pleasant news for your family," growled Elliott in suppressed fury. "'Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I'm sure you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most estimable and cleanly washlady.' Good heavens! This seems to have gone a little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head is level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue Barre sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final." "Rue Barre," began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased, for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along the sunflecked path, tripped Rue Barre. Her gown was spotless, and her big straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow across her eyes. Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his headcovering with an air so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barre smiled. The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining himself on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again in spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair on the terrace and drawing a book from her musicroll, turned the pages, found the place, and then placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a little, smiled a little, and looked out over the city. She had entirely forgotten Foxhall Clifford. After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began to adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed like fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now fluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barre sighed again. She was very happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sunshine so caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose in her breast. This is what it sang "Out of the throng of passersby, out of the world of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has turned aside to me." So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two big mousecoloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace, where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barre laughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat was in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing smiles which would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger. For an instant Rue Barre frowned, then she looked curiously at Clifford, then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the bobbing pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most bewitching laugh. Was this Rue Barre? So changed, so changed that she did not know herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all else, which trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which rippled forth in a laugh at nothing,at a strutting pigeon,and Mr. Clifford. "And you think, because I return the salute of the students in the Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not know you, Monsieur, but vanity is man's other name;be content, Monsieur Vanity, I shall be punctiliousoh, most punctilious in returning your salute." "But I begI implore you to let me render you that homage which has so long" "Oh dear; I don't care for homage." "Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and then,occasionallyvery occasionally." "And if you, why not another?" "Not at all,I will be discretion itself." "Discretionwhy?" Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford winced for a moment, but only for a moment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat down and offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all the time he knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word he uttered bound him in honour from which there was no escape. And all the time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford's rescue,for even they felt there was something wrong, as Elliott stormed within himself and growled maledictions. When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but Rue Barre's response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while the situation slowly assumed its just proportions. Then regret began to creep in, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations. At the first word Rue Barre checked him. "I thank you," she said, speaking very gravely. "No man has ever before offered me marriage." She turned and looked out over the city. After a while she spoke again. "You offer me a great deal. I am alone, I have nothing, I am nothing." She turned again and looked at Paris, brilliant, fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He followed her eyes. "Oh," she murmured, "it is hard,hard to work alwaysalways alone with never a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is offered means the streets, the boulevardwhen passion is dead. I know it,we know it,we others who have nothing,have no one, and who give ourselves, unquestioningwhen we love,yes, unquestioningheart and soul, knowing the end." She touched the rose at her breast. For a moment she seemed to forget him, then quietly"I thank you, I am very grateful." She opened the book and, plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the leaves. Then looking up she said gently, "I cannot accept." V It took Clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of the first week he was pronounced convalescent by Elliott, who was an authority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with which Rue Barre acknowledged his solemn salutes.


Forty times a day he blessed Rue Barre for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at the same time, oh, wondrous heart of ours!he suffered the tortures of the blighted. Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford's reticence, partly by the unexplainable thaw in the frigidity of Rue Barre. At their frequent encounters, when she, tripping along the rue de Seine, with musicroll and big straw hat would pass Clifford and his familiars steering an easterly course to the Caf Vachette, and at the respectful uncovering of the band would colour and smile at Clifford, Elliott's slumbering suspicions awoke. But he never found out anything, and finally gave it up as beyond his comprehension, merely qualifying Clifford as an idiot and reserving his opinion of Rue Barre. And all this time Selby was jealous. At first he refused to acknowledge it to himself, and cut the studio for a day in the country, but the woods and fields of course aggravated his case, and the brooks babbled of Rue Barre and the mowers calling to each other across the meadow ended in a quavering "Rue Barree!" That day spent in the country made him angry for a week, and he worked sulkily at Julian's, all the time tormented by a desire to know where Clifford was and what he might be doing. This culminated in an erratic stroll on Sunday which ended at the flowermarket on the Pont au Change, began again, was gloomily extended to the morgue, and again ended at the marble bridge. It would never do, and Selby felt it, so he went to see Clifford, who was convalescing on mint juleps in his garden. They sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and each found the other most entertaining, only Selby failed to pump Clifford, to the other's unfeigned amusement. But the juleps spread balm on the sting of jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and when Selby said he must go, Clifford went too, and when Selby, not to be outdone, insisted on accompanying Clifford back to his door, Clifford determined to see Selby back half way, and then finding it hard to part, they decided to dine together and "flit." To flit, a verb applied to Clifford's nocturnal prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well as anything, the gaiety proposed. Dinner was ordered at Mignon's, and while Selby interviewed the chef, Clifford kept a fatherly eye on the butler. The dinner was a success, or was of the sort generally termed a success. Toward the dessert Selby heard some one say as at a great distance, "Kid Selby, drunk as a lord." A group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands and laughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. There was Clifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum Selby, and there seemed to be others there, either seated beside them or continually passing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. The perfume of roses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms and the laughter grew vaguer and vaguer. The room seemed enveloped in mist. Then, all in a moment each object stood out painfully distinct, only forms and visages were distorted and voices piercing. He drew himself up, calm, grave, for the moment master of himself, but very drunk. He knew he was drunk, and was as guarded and alert, as keenly suspicious of himself as he would have been of a thief at his elbow. His selfcommand enabled Clifford to hold his head safely under some running water, and repair to the street considerably the worse for wear, but never suspecting that his companion was drunk. For a time he kept his selfcommand. His face was only a bit paler, a bit tighter than usual; he was only a trifle slower and more fastidious in his speech. It was midnight when he left Clifford peacefully slumbering in somebody's armchair, with a long suede glove dangling in his hand and a plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect his throat from drafts. He walked through the hall and down the stairs, and found himself on the sidewalk in a quarter he did not know. Mechanically he looked up at the name of the street. The name was not familiar. He turned and steered his course toward some lights clustered at the end of the street. They proved farther away than he had anticipated, and after a long quest he came to the conclusion that his eyes had been mysteriously removed from their proper places and had been reset on either side of his head like those of a bird. It grieved him to think of the inconvenience this transformation might occasion him, and he attempted to cock up his head, henlike, to test the mobility of his neck. Then an immense despair stole over him,tears gathered in the tearducts, his heart melted, and he collided with a tree. This shocked him into comprehension; he stifled the violent tenderness in his breast, picked up his hat and moved on more briskly. His mouth was white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched. He held his course pretty well and strayed but little, and after an apparently interminable length of time found himself passing a line of cabs. The brilliant lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he felt it might be pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering this impulse he passed on. Later an idea struck him that it would save fatigue to take a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the cabs seemed already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and confusing that he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked around. A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. He recognized the Arc de Triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size annoyed him. He felt it was too big. Then he heard something fall clattering to the pavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn't much matter. When he had mastered himself and regained control of his right leg, which betrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found himself traversing the Place de la Concorde at a pace which threatened to land him at the Madeleine. This would never do. He turned sharply to the right and crossing the bridge passed the Palais Bourbon at a trot and wheeled into the Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well enough although the size of the War Office struck him as a personal insult, and he missed his cane, which it would have been pleasant to drag along the iron railings as he passed. It occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, but when he found it he forgot what he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head with gravity. Then he was obliged to battle with a violent inclination to sit down and weep. This lasted until he came to the rue de Rennes, but there he became absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony overhanging the Cour du Dragon, and time slipped away until he remembered vaguely that he had no business there, and marched off again. It was slow work. The inclination to sit down and weep had given place to a desire for solitary and deep reflection. Here his right leg forgot its obedience and attacking the left, outflanked it and brought him up against a wooden board which seemed to bar his path. He tried to walk around it, but found the street closed. He tried to push it over, and found he couldn't. Then he noticed a red lantern standing on a pile of pavingstones inside the barrier. This was pleasant. How was he to get home if the boulevard was blocked? But he was not on the boulevard. His treacherous right leg had beguiled him into a detour, for there, behind him lay the boulevard with its endless line of lamps,and here, what was this narrow dilapidated street piled up with earth and mortar and heaps of stone? He looked up. Written in staring black letters on the barrier was RUE BARRE. He sat down. Two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get up, but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste, and they passed on, laughing. For he was at that moment absorbed in a problem. It was, how to see Rue Barre. She was somewhere or other in that big house with the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but what of that? The simple idea struck him to shout until she came. This idea was replaced by another equally lucid,to hammer on the door until she came; but finally rejecting both of these as too uncertain, he decided to climb into the balcony, and opening a window politely inquire for Rue Barre. There was but one lighted window in the house that he could see. It was on the second floor, and toward this he cast his eyes. Then mounting the wooden barrier and clambering over the piles of stones, he reached the sidewalk and looked up at the faade for a foothold. It seemed impossible. But a sudden fury seized him, a blind, drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushed to his head, leaping, beating in his ears like the dull thunder of an ocean. He set his teeth, and springing at a windowsill, dragged himself up and hung to the iron bars. Then reason fled; there surged in his brain the sound of many voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, and gripping at cornice and ledge he worked his way along the faade, clung to pipes and shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony by the lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled against the pane. For a moment he leaned breathless against the railingthen the window was slowly opened from within. They stared at each other for some time. Presently the girl took two unsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face,all crimsoned now,he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without a word he followed her into the room, closing the big doorlike panes behind him. Then they looked at each other in silence. The room was small and white; everything was white about it,the curtained bed, the little washstand in the corner, the bare walls, the china lamp,and his own face,had he known it, but the face and neck of Rue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rosetree there on the hearth beside her. It did not occur to him to speak. She seemed not to expect it. His mind was struggling with the impressions of the room. The whiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied himbegan to trouble him. As his eye became accustomed to the light, other objects grew from the surroundings and took their places in the circle of lamplight. There was a piano and a coalscuttle and a little iron trunk and a bathtub. Then there was a row of wooden pegs against the door, with a white chintz curtain covering the clothes underneath. On the bed lay an umbrella and a big straw hat, and on the table, a musicroll unfurled, an inkstand, and sheets of ruled paper. Behind him stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror, but somehow he did not care to see his own face just then. He was sobering. The girl sat looking at him without a word. Her face was expressionless, yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, so wonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as velvet, and the colour on her neck deepened and whitened with every breath. She seemed smaller and more slender than when he had seen her in the street, and there was now something in the curve of her cheek almost infantine. When at last he turned and caught his own reflection in the mirror behind him, a shock passed through him as though he had seen a shameful thing, and his clouded mind and his clouded thoughts grew clearer. For a moment their eyes met then his sought the floor, his lips tightened, and the struggle within him bowed his head and strained every nerve to the breaking. And now it was over, for the voice within had spoken. He listened, dully interested but already knowing the end,indeed it little mattered;the end would always be the same for him;he understood nowalways the same for him, and he listened, dully interested, to a voice which grew within him. After a while he stood up, and she rose at once, one small hand resting on the table. Presently he opened the window, picked up his hat, and shut it again. Then he went over to the rosebush and touched the blossoms with his face. One was standing in a glass of water on the table and mechanically the girl drew it out, pressed it with her lips and laid it on the table beside him. He took it without a word and crossing the room, opened the door. The landing was dark and silent, but the girl lifted the lamp and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs to the hallway. Then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket. Through this he passed with his rose. 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