apartment in the midst of the summer season, she said, "for professional
advice." She and her niece liked the city and never minded the heat.
Mélanie, her aunt explained, had been enabled to see several old friends,
and, for her own part, she liked home at any time of the year better than
the most comfortable of hotels.

"This is quite like home," she added, "even though we are really exiles."
Aleck ventured to hope that the "professional advice" had not meant
serious trouble of any sort.

"A slight indisposition only."

"And are you much better now?" Aleck inquired solicitously.

"Oh, it wasn't I; it was Mélanie," Madame smiled. "I became my own
physician many years ago, and now I never see a doctor except when we ask
one to dine. But youth has no such advantage." Madame fairly beamed
with benevolence while explaining one of her pet idiosyncrasies. Before
Aleck could make any headway in gleaning information concerning her own
and Mélanie's movements, as he was shamelessly trying to do, Lloyd-Jones
had persuaded Miss Reynier to sing.

"Some of those quaint old things, please," he was saying; and Aleck
wondered if he never would hang himself with his own rope. But
Lloyd-Jones' cheerful voice went on:

"Some of those Hungarian things are jolly and funny, even though you
can't understand the words. Makes you want to dance or sing yourself."
Aleck groaned, but Mélanie began to sing, with Jones hovering around the
piano. By the time Mélanie had sung everybody's favorites, excluding