the house on East Fifty-seventh street and removed with her daughter to
Paris. There Eve had met her future husband. Shortly after, her mother
died. Eve returned to New York to attend to some business in connection
with her estate, remaining only a few weeks, leaving almost
reluctantly; but the new love was very sweet, she had looked forward
joyfully to the final transplanting of her affections.

And then the War, the short month of long, long days in the apartment
on the avenue des Champs-Elysées, waiting, waiting, while the earth
trembled to the tramp of armed men and the tireless rumbling of
caissons and camions, and the air was vibrant with the savage dialogue
of cannon, ever louder, daily more near....

She fell silent, sitting with bowed head and gaze remote.

From the splendid jewels that adorned the fingers twisting together in
her lap, the firelight struck coruscant gleams.

"Now I hate Paris, I wish never to see it again."

Duchemin uttered a sympathetic murmur.

"But New York--?"

"Ah, but sometimes I think I would give anything to be there once
more!"

The animation with which this confession was delivered proved
transient.