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glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him:

      ``Forgive me; I would not change places with a queen.''

      ``Nor I with any man!'' he cried gayly. ``Am I not Paris?''

      ``And I?''

      ``You are Hélène,'' he said, laughing. ``Let me see – Paris and Hélène would not have changed – ''

      She interrupted him impatiently. ``Words! you do not mean them. Nor do I, either,'' she added, hastily. After that neither spoke for a while. Gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. Presently she glanced up.

      ``Paris, do you want to smoke?''

      ``You don't think I would smoke in this dainty nest?''

      ``Please do, I like it. We are – we will be such very good friends. There are matches on that table in the silver box.''

      He shook his head, laughing. ``You are too indulgent.''

      ``I am never indulgent, excepting to myself. But I have caprices and I generally die when they are not indulged. This is one. Please smoke.''

      ``Oh, in that case, with Hélène's permission.''

      She laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. There was another long pause, then she began again:

      ``Paris, you speak French very well.''

      He came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet.

      ``Do I, Hélène?''

      ``Yes – but you sing it divinely.''

      Gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, ``Yes 'tis a dream – a dream of love,'' he repeated, but stopped.

      Yvonne's temples and throat were crimson.

      ``Please open the window,'' she cried, ``it's so warm here.''

      ``Hélène, I think you are blushing,'' said he, mischievously.

      She turned her head away from him. He rose and opened the window, leaning out a moment; his heart was beating violently. Presently he returned.

      ``It's one o'clock.''

      No answer.

      ``Hélène, it's one o'clock in the morning.''

      ``Are you tired?'' she murmured.

      ``No.''

      ``Nor I – don't go.''

      ``But it's one o'clock.''

      ``Don't go yet.''

      He sank down irresolutely on the rug again. ``I ought to go,'' he murmured.

      ``Are we to remain friends?''

      ``That is for Hélène to say.''

      ``And Hélène will leave it to Homer!''

      ``To whom?'' said Gethryn.

      ``Monsieur Homer,'' said the girl, faintly.

      ``But that was a tragedy.''

      ``But they were friends.''

      ``In a way. Yes, in a way.''

      Gethryn tried to return to a light tone. ``They fell in love, I believe.'' No answer. ``Very well,'' said Gethryn, still trying to joke, ``I will carry you off in a boat, then.''

      ``To Troy – when?''

      ``No, to Meudon, when you are well. Do you like the country?''

      ``I love it,'' she said.

      ``Well, I'll take my easel and my paints along too.''

      She looked at him seriously. ``You are an artist – I heard that from the concierge.''

      ``Yes,'' said Gethryn, ``I think I may claim the title tonight.''

      And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent.

      ``Do you paint landscapes?''

      ``Figures,'' said the young man, shortly.

      ``From models?''

      ``Of course,'' he answered, still more drily.

      ``Draped,'' she persisted.

      ``No.''

      ``I hate models!'' she cried out, almost fiercely.

      ``They are not a pleasing set, as a rule,'' he admitted. ``But I know some decent ones.''

      She shivered and shook her curly head. ``Some are very pretty, I suppose.''

      ``Some.''

      ``Do you know Sarah Brown?''

      ``Yes, I know Sarah.''

      ``Men go wild about her.''

      ``I never did.''

      Yvonne was out of humor. ``Oh,'' she cried, petulantly, ``you are very cold – you Americans – like ice.''

      ``Because we don't run after Sarah?''

      ``Because you are a nation of business, and – ''

      ``And brains,'' said Gethryn, drily.

      There was an uncomfortable pause. Gethryn looked at the girl. She lay with her face turned from him.

      ``Hélène!'' No answer. ``Yvonne – Mademoiselle!'' No answer. ``It's two o'clock.''

      A slight impatient movement of the head.

      ``Good night.'' Gethryn rose. ``Good night,'' he repeated. He waited for a moment. ``Good night, Yvonne,'' he said, for the third time.

      She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child.

      ``Good night,'' he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. She looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. The golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart.

      ``You will wear it?'' she whispered.

      ``Yes.''

      ``Then – good night.''

      Half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. And all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep.

      Six

      It was the first day of June. In the Luxembourg Gardens a soft breeze stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across the water in the Fountain of Marie de Medicis.

      The modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy, from his long winter's sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of last season's brilliant debut.

      Through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the Palais du Sénat, and almost warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the Palace of the King.

      Through every gate the people drifted into the gardens, and the winding paths were dotted and crowded with brightly-colored, slowly-moving groups.

      Here a half dozen meager, black-robed priests strolled silently amid the tender verdure; here a noisy crowd of children, gamboling awkwardly in the wake of a painted rubber ball, made day hideous with their yells.

      Now a slovenly company of dragoons shuffled by, their big shapeless boots covered with dust, and their whalebone plumes hanging in straight points to the middle of their backs; now a group of strutting students and cocottes passed noisily, the girls in spotless spring plumage, the students vying with each other in the display of blinking eyeglasses, huge bunchy neckties, and sleek checked trousers. Policemen, trim little grisettes (for whatever is said to the contrary, the grisette

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