the name of the Frangipani, once lords of Segna. As men, their
achievements are wiped out of commonly remembered history; but
their name is distilled into a sensuous perfume which perchance
may be found in the penny scent fountains of to-day. I was
smiling over this quaint olfactory coincidence, and wondering
whether any human being alive at that moment had ever read the
Sieur Houssaie's book, when a tug at my arm, such as a neglected
terrier gives with his paw, brought me back to the workaday
world. I turned sharply and met a pair of melting, brown,
piteous, imploring dog's eyes, belonging not to a terrier, but to
the disregarded female in black.

"Will you please, sir, to tell me what I must do."

I stared. She was not in the least like what my half-conscious
glance at the female in black had taken her to be. She was quite
young, remarkably good looking. Even at the first instant I was
struck by her eyes and the mass of bronze hair and the twitching
of a childish mouth. But she had an untidy, touzled, raffish
appearance, due to I knew not what investiture of disrepute. Her
hands--for she wore no gloves--wanted washing.

"What a young girl like yourself must not do," said I, "is to
enter into conversation with men in public places."

"Then I shall have to die," she said, forlornly, edging away from
my side.

She had the oddest little foreign accent. I looked at her again
more critically, and discovered what it was that made her look so