Verlaine, and with his wife dutifully at his side bowed to the two
Americans and told them of the pleasure experienced. Ermentrude, her
candid eyes now reproachful and suspicious, did not flinch as she took
his hand--it seemed to melt in hers--but her farewell was conventional.
In the street, before they seated themselves in their carriage, Mrs.
Sheldam shook her head.

"Oh, my dear! What a woman! What a man! I have _such_ a story to tell
you. No wonder you admire these people. The wife is a genius--isn't she
handsome?--but the man--he is an angel!"

"I didn't see his wings, auntie," was the curt reply.


III

The Sheldams always stayed at the same hôtel during their annual visits
to Paris. It was an old-fashioned house with an entrance in the Rue
Saint-Honoré and another in the Rue de Rivoli. The girl sat on a small
balcony from which she could view the Tuileries Gardens without turning
her head; while looking farther westward she saw the Place de la
Concorde, its windy spaces a chessboard for rapid vehicles, whose
wheels, wet from the watered streets, ground out silvery fire in the
sun-rays of this gay June afternoon. Where the Avenue des Champs Élysées
began, a powdery haze enveloped the equipages, overblown with their
summer toilets, all speeding to Longchamps. It was racing day, and
Ermentrude, feigning a headache, had insisted that her uncle and aunt go
to the meeting. It would amuse them, she knew, and she wished to be
alone. Nearly a week had passed since the visit to Neuilly, and she had
been afraid to ask her aunt what Madame Kéroulan had imparted to