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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a while Yvonne broke the silence – speaking very low: ``Are you angry?''

``Why?''

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

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

She did so silently.

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

The girl spoke again, still very low.

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

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

``For two weeks you have not been to see me.''

``You are mistaken, I have been – '' he began, but stopped.

``When?''

``Saturday.''

``And I was not at home?''

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

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

``Yes,'' said Gethryn, ``I beg pardon.''

Presently she continued: ``You and – and he – are the only two men who have been in my room.''

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

The girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil.

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

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

``It has been so long – I – I – hoped you would come.''

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

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

``I was with a friend,'' she said, simply.

He came and sat down opposite her.

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

She looked at him for some moments in silence.

``It was Mr Pick,'' she said at length.

Gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust.

``And that – Jew was in your rooms? That Jew!''

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

``I don't.''

``You do.''

There was a pause.

``Rex,'' she said, very low, ``will you listen?''

``Yes, I'll listen.''

``He is a – a friend of my sister's. He came from her to – to – ''

``To what!''

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

``And you gave him the money – I saw you!''

``I did – all I could spare.''

``Is he – is your sister married?''

``No,'' she whispered.

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

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

The young man was silent.

``And you will come again?'' she asked timidly.

No answer.

She moved toward the door.

``We were such very good friends.''

Still he was silent.

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

``Then it is adieu.''

``Yes,'' he said, huskily, ``that is better.''

She trembled a little and leaned against the doorway.

``Adieu, mon ami – '' She tried to speak, but her voice broke and ended in a sob.

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

*

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

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

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

``You mustn't! I forbid you!''

``But I want to!''

``Not now, then – ''

``Yes – immediately!''

``Rex – you mustn't. O, Rex – I – I – ''

``What?'' he laughed, holding her by her slender wrists.

She flushed scarlet and struggled to break away.

``Only one.''

``No.''

``One.''

``None.''

``Shall I let you go?''

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

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

``Yvonne, do you love me? Truthfully?''

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

``Yvonne – Yvonne,'' he murmured, ``I love you – once and forever.''

``Once and forever,'' she repeated, in a half whisper.

``Forever,'' he said.

*

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

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

``Do you like grilled sardines on toast?'' she asked.

``I seem to,'' he smiled, finishing his fourth; ``they are delicious – yours,'' he added.

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

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

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

``Yvonne, I want to tell you a secret.''

``What, Rex?''

``I love you.''

``Oh!''

``And you?''

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

``Rex?''

``What, Yvonne?''

``I want to tell you a secret.''

``What, Yvonne?''

``If you eat so many sardines – ''

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

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

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

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

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

Gethryn meekly brought it.

``If you touch me while I am washing these dishes!''

``But let me help?''

``No, go and sit down instantly.''

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

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

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

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

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

``Which do you think most of – your dogs, or me?''

``Pups.''

``That parrot, or me?''

``Poll.''

``The raven, or me? The cat, or me?''

``Bird and puss.''

She stole over to his side and knelt down.

``Rex, if you ever tire of me – if you ever are unkind – if you ever leave me – I think I shall die.''

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

``I know it – I'm foolish,'' she faltered.

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

She leaned closer to him.

``I must go back to America someday.''

``And – and marry?'' she whispered, chokingly.

``No – not to marry,'' he said, ``but it is my home.''

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

``How do you mean?''

``Have you ever loved – before – a girl, here in Paris – like me?''

``There are none – like you.''

``Answer me, Rex.''

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

She put her warm little hand across his mouth.

``Don't ask,'' she murmured.

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

She hid her face tight against his breast.

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

``You loved him?''

``Yes – not as I love you.''

Presently she raised her eyes to his.

``Shall I tell you all? I am like so many – so many others. When you know their story, you know mine.''

He leaned down and kissed her.

``Don't tell me,'' he said.

But she went on.

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

``And left you.''

``He died of the fever in Tonquin.''

``When?''

``Three weeks ago.''

``And you heard?''

``Tonight.''

``Then he did leave you.''

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

``When did you find it out?''

``One day – you know when – in a – a cab.''

``Dear Yvonne,'' he whispered, ``can't you go back to – to your family?''

``No, Rex.''

``Never?''

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

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

``Rex!''

It was Braith's voice.

``What!'' cried Gethryn, hoarsely.

There was a pause.

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

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

``Company be damned – are you ill?''

``No.''

There was a silence.

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

``All right; good night!'' and Braith went away.

Yvonne looked inquiringly at him.

``It was nothing,'' he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at her feet, crying, ``Oh, Yvonne – Yvonne!''

Outside the storm raged furiously.

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

``Yes,'' he said.

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

She held up an envelope to him.

``I can light it over the lamp,'' she repeated.

``What is the address?''

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

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

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

``The candle is lighted,'' she whispered, at last.

``And the lamp?''

``Is out.''

Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

``It is so very wonderful and dazzling, but – but the color seems to me – unkind.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rowden groaned.

``Of course there is. What are you made of?''

``Human flesh,'' acknowledged the other meekly.

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

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

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

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

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

``Hello!'' cried Braith, cordially.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

``You see before you the Princess Hélène, Monsieur, she said, gravely bending the little masked head.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

``And?''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

``Come, hurry – let us go to the box!'' she whispered, dragging Gethryn after her up the stairway.