not dry and musty precedents from the courts of appeals and supreme.
He was glad to see that some of his old friends were here, too, and
that the shelves were not wholly given over to piracy. What a hobby to
follow! What adventures all within thirty square feet! And a shiver
passed over his spine as he saw several tattered black flags hanging
from the walls; the real articles, too, now faded to a rusty brown.
Over what smart and lively heeled brigs had they floated, these
sinister jolly rogers? For in a room like this they could not be other
than genuine. All his journalistic craving for stories awakened.

Behind a broad, flat, mahogany desk, with a green-shaded student lamp
at his elbow, sat a bright-cheeked, white-haired man, writing.
Fitzgerald instantly recognized him. Abruptly his gaze returned to the
girl. Yes, now he knew. It was stupid of him not to have remembered
at once. Why, it was she who had given the bunch of violets that day
to the old veteran in Napoleon's tomb. To have remembered the father
and to have forgotten the daughter!

"I was wondering where I had seen you," he said lowly.

"Where was that?"

"In Napoleon's tomb, nearly a year ago. You gave an old French soldier
a bouquet of violets. I was there."

"Were you?" As a matter of fact his face was absolutely new to her.
"I am not very good at recalling faces. And in traveling one sees so
many."

"That is true." Queer sort of girl, not to show just a little more