more picturesque than most girls of her age, and she was certainly
a good deal more soignee than many, and she had the Frenchwoman's
knack of putting on her clothes. But those would be all the
differences, leaving out the frankness. Ricardo wondered in what
street of Bohemia she dwelt. He wondered still more when he saw
her again half an hour afterwards at the entrance to the Villa des
Fleurs. She came down the long hall with Harry Wethermill at her
side. The couple were walking slowly, and talking as they walked
with so complete an absorption in each other that they were
unaware of their surroundings. At the bottom of the steps a stout
woman of fifty-five over-jewelled, and over-dressed and raddled
with paint, watched their approach with a smile of good-humoured
amusement. When they came near enough to hear she said in French:

"Well, Celie, are you ready to go home?"

The girl looked up with a start.

"Of course, madame," she said, with a certain submissiveness which
surprised Ricardo. "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

She ran to the cloak-room, and came back again with her cloak.

"Good-bye, Harry," she said, dwelling upon his name and looking
out upon him with soft and smiling eyes.

"I shall see you tomorrow evening," he said, holding her hand.
Again she let it stay within his keeping, but she frowned, and a
sudden gravity settled like a cloud upon her face. She turned to
the elder woman with a sort of appeal.