d, turnedinto the central glitter of the Boulevard, Dar

whose closing performances in a play ofunusual originality had been the theme of lon

his gesture eagerly. She was all awakeand alive now, as if the heady rumours of the

window, straining back for a glimpse of the sacredthreshold. A

ngto see it--with your friends, of course.--That is," headded, "if there's any sort of chance of getting seats."The flash of a street lamp lit up her radiant face. "Oh,will you really take us? What fun to think that it'stomorrow already!"It was wonderfully pleasant to be able to give suchpleasure. Darrow was not rich, but it was almost impossiblefor him to picture the state of persons with tastes andperceptions like his own, to whom an evening at the theatrewas an unattainable indulgence. There floated through hismind an answer of Mrs. Leath's to his enquiry whether shehad seen the play in question. "No. I meant to, of course,but one is so overwhelmed wi

; and if you can't get places for us all, wouldn't youperhaps just take ME? After all, the Farlows may haveseen it!"He had not, of course, thought her horrid, but only the moreengaging, for being so natural, and so unashamed of sho

next morning, as heopened his hotel windo

d on him by thisunexpected turn of everts. To wake to the necessity ofaction, to postpone perforce the fruitless contemplation ofhis private grievance, was cause

e week before, notonly from their apartment but from Paris; and Miss Viner'sbreach with Mrs. Murrett had been too sudden to permit herletter and telegram to overtake them. Both communications,no doubt, still reposed in a

not disconcerted by this newobstacle, had quite simply acceded to Darrow's suggestionthat

ture. As they passed the shadowycolonnade of the Francais, remote and temple-like in thepaling lights, he felt a clutch on his arm, and heard thecry: "There are things THERE that I want so desperatelyto see!" and all the way back to the hotel she continued toquestion him, with shrewd precision and an artless thirstfor detail, about the theatrical life of Paris. He wasstruck afresh, as he listened, by the way in which hernatura

ble, he recalled again her cry ofjoy at the prospect of seeing Cerdine. It was certainly apity, since that most elusive and incalculable of artistswas leaving the next week for South America, to miss wh

she had been plunged into some sparkling element whichhad curled up

d with a handat her waist she spun about as if t

r!""You DO like my dress?""I adore it! I always adore new dresses--why

day, when Mrs. Murrettdragged me down unexpectedly to fill a place at dinner, Isuddenly thought I'd try spinning around like that, and sayto every one: 'WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME?' And, doyou know, they were all taken in, including Mrs. Murrett,who didn't recognize my old turned and dyed rags, and toldme afterward it wa

aw how easy it was toexplain things to her. She would either accept hissuggestion, or she would not: but at least she would wasteno time in protestations and objections, or any vainsacrifice to the idols of conf

her in. She owned it was but too probable thatthey had gone there to "cut down", and might be doing so inquarters too contracted to receive her; and it would beunfair, on that chance, to impose herself on themunannounced. The simplest way of

concern for her friendsseemed to have effaced all thought of herself, and thislittle indication of character gave Darrow a quitedisproportionate pleasure. She agreed that it would be wellto go at on

ny imaginative suggestion, and the spectacle beforethem--always, in its scenic splendour, so moving to hercompanion--broke up, under her scrutiny, into a thousandminor points: the things in the shops, the types ofcharacter and manner of occupation shown in the passingfaces, the street signs, the names of the hotels theypassed, the motley brightness of the flower-carts, theidentity of the churches and public buildings that caughther eye. But what she liked best, he divi

ut to the light herpoor little shut-away emotions. Years of repression wererevealed in her sudden b

lves--he a painter, she a "magazine writer"--rose before him in all their incorruptible simplicity: anelderly New England couple, with vague yearnings forenfranchisement, who lived in Paris as if it were aMassachusetts suburb, and dwelt hope

ed English fiction forthe provincial press, a lady from Wichita, Kansas, whoadvocated free love and the abolition of the corset, aclergyman's widow fro

ermain", agroup of Parisian "Intellectuals" or a "Cross-section ofMontmartre"; but even her faculty for extracting from it themost varied literary effects had not sufficed to create apermanent demand for the "Inner G

nceal from Darrow that her theatrical projects were of thevaguest. They hung mainly on the problematical good-will ofan ancient comedienne, with whom Mrs. Farlow had a slightacquainta

ept the exactaddress of the Farlows, and the fact that they had sub-lettheir flat before leaving. This information obtained,Darrow proposed to Miss Viner that they should stroll alongthe quays to a little restaurant looking out on the Seine,and there, over the plat du jour, consider the next stepto be taken. The long walk had given her cheeks a glowindicative of wholesome hunger, and she made no difficultyabout satisfying it in Darrow's company. Regaining theriver they walked on in the direction of Notre Dame, delayednow and again by the young man's irresistible tendency tolinger over the bookstalls, and by his ever-fresh responseto the shifting beauties of the scene. For two yea

n the evocation ofgreat perspectives of feeling. For her, as he againperceived when they were seated at their table in a lowwindow above the Seine, Paris was "Paris" by virtue of allits entertaining details, its endless ingenuities ofpleasantness. Where els

into people's mouthsand come out of them? Couldn't he see just what kind of menuit would make, if a fairy waved a wand and suddenly turnedthe conversation at a London dinner into joints andpuddings? She always thought it a good sign when peopleliked Irish stew; it meant that

nk that, except at the creativemoment, the divine flame burns low in its possessors. Theone or two really intelligent actresses he had known hadstruck him, in conversation, as either bovine or primitively"jolly". He had a notion that, save in the mind of geni

Darrow called for writing materialsand room was made at her elbow for the parched ink-bottleand saturated blotter of the Parisian restaurant; but themere sight of these jaded implements seemed to

t you're staying over to see Cerdine?""But AM I--

f you found your friends could have you."She mused for a moment, tapping her lip with the pen. "But Imust let them know I'm here. I m

oduced immediate relief, and she gave anenergetic dab at the ink-bottle; but a

nobusiness of his, after all. He lit a cigar and leaned backin his seat, letting his eyes take their fill of indolentpleasure. In the throes of invention she had

he heard her

ertain they've gotbothers of their own.

tywas genuine and not an artless device to draw him to herside. She was really powerless to put her thoughts inwriting, and the inability seemed characteristic of herquick impressionable mind, and of the incessant come-and-goof her sensations. He thought of Anna Leath's letters, orrather of

ith sudden impatience. She struck him as positivelystupid, and he wondered how he could have wasted half hisday with her, when all the while Mrs. Leath's letter mightb

cious of hischange of mood, for she sprang f

ir eyesmet, he noticed a faint embarrassment in hers. Could it bethat his nearness was, after all, the cause of herconfusion? The thought turned

dine asa pretext? Paris was full of people he knew, and hisannoyance was increased by the thought that some friend

he did not want thewoman he adored to

awaiting him, and had even gone so faras to imagine that its contents might