carry her hand-luggage and her violin to the pension. He paid the
trifling score, and followed by many eyes in the room they went
out into the crisp night together.

At the lodge the doors stood wide, and a vigorous sound of
scrubbing showed that the Portier's wife was preparing for the
inspection of possible new tenants. She was cleaning down the
stairs by the light of a candle, and the steam of the hot water
on the cold marble invested her like an aura. She stood aside to
let them pass, and then went cumbrously down the stairs to where,
a fork in one hand and a pipe in the other, the Portier was
frying chops for the evening meal.

"What have I said?" she demanded from the doorway. "Your angel is
here."

"So!"

"She with whom you sing, old cracked voice! Whose money you
refuse, because she reminds you of your opera singer! She is
again here, and with a man!"

"It is the way of the young and beautiful--there is always a
man," said the Portier, turning a chop.

His wife wiped her steaming hands on her apron and turned away,
exasperated.

"It is the same man whom I last night saw at the gate," she threw
back over her shoulder. "I knew it from the first; but you, great