She heard the picturesque street cries of the flower-sellers in the
Avenue de l'Opéra--"Beflower yourselves, gentlemen and ladies, beflower
yourselves!"

The gay, shrill sounds floated in to her, and, in spite of her bad night
and ugly dreams, she felt extraordinarily well and happy.

Cities are like people. In some cities one feels at home at once; others
remain, however well acquainted we become with them, always strangers.

Sylvia Bailey, born, bred, married, widowed in an English provincial
town, had always felt strange in London. But with Paris,--dear,
delightful, sunny Paris,--she had become on the closest, the most
affectionately intimate terms from the first day. She had only been
here a month, and yet she already knew with familiar knowledge the
quarter in which was situated her quiet little hotel, that wonderful
square mile--it is not more--which has as its centre the Paris Opera
House, and which includes the Rue de la Paix and the beginning of
each of the great arteries of modern Paris.

And that was not all. Sylvia Bailey knew something of the France of the
past. The quiet, clever, old-fashioned Frenchwoman by whom she had been
educated had seen to that. She could wander through the narrow streets
on the other side of the Seine, and reconstitute the amazing, moving,
tragic things which happened there during the great Revolution.

She was now half sorry to think that in ten days or so she had promised
to join some acquaintances in Switzerland. Luckily her trustee and
would-be lover, Bill Chester, proposed to come out and join the party
there. That was something to look forward to, for Sylvia was very fond