had almost reached the steps that she had noticed that he was
wearing a foreign uniform--and even then she had promptly placed him
as one of Rosemary's innumerable conquests, bestowing on him a
friendly and inquiring smile.

"Were you looking for Miss Langdon?" Even now she could see the
courteous, grave young face soften as he turned quickly toward her,
baring his dark head with that swift foreign grace that turns our
perfunctory habits into something like a ritual.

"But no," he had said gently, "I was looking for you, Miss Abbott."

"Now will you please tell me how in the world you knew that I was
Miss Abbott?"

And he had smiled--with his lips, not his eyes.

"I should be dull indeed if that I did not know. I am Philippe
Laurent, Miss Abbott."

And "Oh," she had cried joyously, "Liane's Philippe!"

"But yes--Liane's Philippe. They are not here, the others? Madame
Langdon, the little Miss Rosemary?"

"No, they've gone to some parish fair, and I've been wicked and
stayed home. Won't you sit down and talk to me? Please!"

"Miss Abbott, it is not to you that I must talk. What I have to say
is indeed most difficult, and it is to Jeremy's Janie that I would