boyish shyness, his reverent awe of her, startled her.

"He thinks Lisa Arpent a jeune fille--like these
others. A little white rose!" she thought, and laughed.
She would not tell him why she laughed, and muttered an
oath when he stupidly insisted on knowing.

He was the first lover who had ever believed in her.

She had begun this affair simply to punish the "old
woman"; the man in it had counted for nothing. But now,
as they crossed the gangway, she looked up at him with
eyes that for the moment were honest and true as a
child's, and her firm hand suddenly trembled in his.


Three weeks later Mrs. Waldeaux came into Miss Vance's
little parlor on Half Moon Street. Her face was red from
the wind, her eyes sparkled, and she hummed some gay air
which an organ ground outside. Clara laid down her
pen.

"Where have you been, Frances? It is a week since I saw
you."

"Oh, everywhere! George has been showing me London!"
She sat down before the fire with a gurgle of comfort
and dropped her bonnet and gloves on the floor beside
her. "Yesterday we spent at the Museum. George
explained the Elgin marbles to me. I don't suppose any