They made the journey to Paris without any stoppage. He had to visit M.
Ritz, for M. Rollinet was no longer there, having accepted a judgeship
in Algeria. In the vehicle, carrying to a hotel where he purposed
leaving her, Felix said, feelingly:

"I think I see why we were brought together. I am not to lead the life
of an artist, lounging in galleries, sketching ruins and pretty girls,
but one of expiation for my poor father's crime."

"Perhaps. More surely," she replied with a smile which, on her peerless
lips, seemed divine, "_I_ should make the faults of the Dobronowskas be
forgotten."

They had arrived at the same conclusion as the journey ended, but the
means had not occurred yet to either.

"Here we are," he exclaimed, as the carriage horse came to a stop.

He alighted, entered the hotel and settled for the young lady's stay.
Returning, he came to help her out.

"My door will never be closed to you," she said, remembering how, in her
story, her notorious ancestors had playfully suggested in a letter
announcing her renunciation of her scheming mother's toils and her
return to marry Clemenceau, that he might leave his door on the jar for
her at all instants. "And yet, what will be the gain in our meeting
again?"

"Everything for our souls, and materially! Here in France, where La