class. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. It bore the
name, "Achilles Alexandrakis," and below it a generous sum to his order.
She made her way toward him, and waited while he disengaged himself
from the little throng about him and came to her, a look of pleasure and
service in his face.

"You speak to me, madame?"

"I wanted to give you this." She slipped the check into the thin
fingers. "You can look at it later--"

But already the fingers had raised it with a little look of pleased
surprise.... Then the face darkened, and he laid the paper on the
polished table between them. There was a quick movement of the slim
fingers that pushed it toward her.

"I cannot take it, madame--to speak of my country. I speak for the
child--and for you." He bowed low. "I give please to do it."

The next moment he had saluted her with gentle grace and was gone from
the room--from the house--between the stone lions and down the Lake
Shore Drive, his free legs swinging in long strides, his head held high
to the wind on the opal lake.

A carriage passed him, and he looked up. Two figures, erect in the sun,
the breath of a child's smile, a bit of shimmer and grey, the flash and
beat of quick hoofs--and they were gone. But the heart of Achilles sang
in his breast, and the day about him was full of light.