another world--or so he appeared to the poor wretch who, since
uncountable time, had set eyes on none but the most miserable dregs of
struggling humanity, who had seen little else but rags, and faces either
cruel or wretched. This man was clad in a huge caped coat, which made
his powerful figure seem preternaturally large. His hair was fair and
slightly curly above his low, square brow; the eyes beneath their heavy
lids looked down on her with unmistakable kindness.

The poor woman struggled to her feet. With a quick and pathetically
humble gesture she drew her ragged, muddy skirts over her ankles and her
tattered kerchief across her breast.

"I had best go now, Monsieur... citizen," she murmured, while a hot
flush rose to the roots of her unkempt hair. "I must not stop here....
I--"

"You are not going, Madame," he broke in, speaking now in perfect French
and with a great air of authority, as one who is accustomed to being
implicitly obeyed, "until you have told me how, a lady of culture and of
refinement, comes to be masquerading as a street-dancer. The game is a
dangerous one, as you have experienced to-night."

"It is no game, Monsieur... citizen," she stammered; "nor yet a
masquerade. I have been a street-dancer all my life, and--"

By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of authority
which she never thought to resent.

"This is not a street-dancer's hand; Madame," he said quietly. "Nor is
your speech that of the people."