"But Jack? It's nearly midnight! Surely there'll be nothing to see on the
Boulevards now?"

"Won't there? You wait and see--Paris never goes to sleep!"

And then--Nancy remembered it long, long afterwards--something very odd and
disconcerting happened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon. The
horse stopped--stopped dead. If it hadn't been that the bridegroom's arm
enclosed her slender, rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown out.

The cabman stood up in his seat and gave his horse a vicious blow across
the back.

"Oh, Jack!" Nancy shrank and hid her face in her husband's arm. "Don't let
him do that! I can't bear it!"

Dampier shouted out something roughly, angrily, and the man jumped off the
box, and taking hold of the rein gave it a sharp pull. He led his unwilling
horse through the big iron gates, and then the little open carriage rolled
on smoothly.

How enchanting to be driving under the stars in the city which hails in
every artist--Jack Dampier was an artist--a beloved son!

In the clear June atmosphere, under the great arc-lamps which seemed
suspended in the mild lambent air, the branches of the trees lining the
Boulevards showed brightly, delicately green; and the tints of the dresses
worn by the women walking up and down outside the cafes and still
brilliantly lighted shops mingled luminously, as on a magic palette.