whirled into the small salon. They were Risler's bride and his partner,
Georges Fromont. Equally young and attractive, they were talking in
undertones, confining their words within the narrow circle of the waltz.

"You lie!" said Sidonie, slightly pale, but with the same little smile.

And the other, paler than she, replied:

"I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted upon this marriage. He was
dying--you had gone away. I dared not say no."

Risler, at a distance, gazed at them in admiration.

"How pretty she is! How well they dance!"

But, when they spied him, the dancers separated, and Sidonie walked
quickly to him.

"What! You here? What are you doing? They are looking everywhere for
you. Why aren't you in there?"

As she spoke she retied his cravat with a pretty, impatient gesture.
That enchanted Risler, who smiled at Sigismond from the corner of his
eye, too overjoyed at feeling the touch of that little gloved hand on his
neck, to notice that she was trembling to the ends of her slender
fingers.

"Give me your arm," she said to him, and they returned together to the
salons. The white bridal gown with its long train made the badly cut,
awkwardly worn black coat appear even more uncouth; but a coat can not be