see each other again. You will hunt a more favorable place. Think it
over, and you will find a solution for it all."

But he wished an immediate solution. They had abandoned their seats,
going slowly toward the rue des Mathurins. Julio was speaking with a
trembling and persuasive eloquence. To-morrow? No, now. They had only to
call a taxicab. It would be only a matter of a few minutes, and then the
isolation, the mystery, the return to a sweet past--to that intimacy
in the studio where they had passed their happiest hours. They would
believe that no time had elapsed since their first meetings.

"No," she faltered with a weakening accent, seeking a last resistance.
"Besides, your secretary might be there, that Spaniard who lives with
you. How ashamed I would be to meet him again!"

Julio laughed. . . . Argensola! How could that comrade who knew all
about their past be an obstacle? If they should happen to meet him in
the house, he would be sure to leave immediately. More than once, he had
had to go out so as not to be in the way. His discretion was such that
he had foreseen events. Probably he had already left, conjecturing that
a near visit would be the most logical thing. His chum would simply go
wandering through the streets in search of news.

Marguerite was silent, as though yielding on seeing her pretexts
exhausted. Desnoyers was silent, too, construing her stillness as
assent. They had left the garden and she was looking around uneasily,
terrified to find herself in the open street beside her lover, and
seeking a hiding-place. Suddenly she saw before her the little red door
of an automobile, opened by the hand of her adorer.