five years I've given a serious thought to a woman. But I shall forget
her as quickly--I am wedded to my art. It's rather a fetching name,
Madge Foster. Come to think of it, it was hardly the proper thing to
leave my card. I suppose I will get a fervid letter of gratitude from
the girl's father, or the two of them may even invade my studio. How
could I have been so stupid?"

He ate a hearty lunch, and set to work diligently. But he could not keep
his mind from the adventure of the morning, and he saw more frequently
the face of the lovely young English girl, than that of the swarthy
Moorish dancer he was doing in oils.

Those five years had made a different man of Jack Clare--had brought him
financial prosperity, success in his art, and contentment with life. He
was now twenty-seven, clean-shaven, and with the build of an athlete;
and his attractive, well-cut features had fulfilled the promise of
youth. But for six wretched months, after that bitter night when Diane
fled from him, he had suffered acutely. In vain his friends, none of
whom could give him any clew to his betrayer, sought to comfort him; in
vain he searched for trace of tidings of his wife, for her faithlessness
had not utterly crushed his love, and the recollections of the first
months of his marriage were very sweet to him. The chains with which the
dancer of the Folies Bergere bound him had been strong; his hot youth
had fallen victim to the charms of a face and figure that would have
enslaved more experienced men.

But the healing power of time works wonders, and in the spring of the
succeeding year, when Paris burst into leaf and blossom, Jack began to
take a fresh interest in life, and to realize with a feeling little
short of satisfaction that Diane's desertion was all for the best, and