low, and the lady received but a momentary impression of a man's figure
bowed over a white table. She chose a chair at once with her back
towards him, and resting her brow on her forefinger, disposed herself
for desolation.

It may have been that the stranger's proximity told on her nerves, or
it may have been that Time had done something to heal the wound.
Whatever the cause, the frame of mind that she invited was slow in
arriving, and when the bouillon and biscottes appeared she was not
averse from trifling with them. Meanwhile, for any sound that he had
made, the young man might have been as defunct as Henri IV; but as she
took her second sip, a groan of such violence escaped him that she
nearly upset her cup.

His abandonment of despair seemed to reflect upon her own
insensibility; and, partly to raise herself in his esteem, the lady a
moment later uttered a long-drawn, wistful sigh. No sooner had she done
so, however, than she deeply regretted the indiscretion, for it
stimulated the young man to a howl positively harrowing.

An impatient movement of her graceful shoulders protested against these
demonstrations, but as she had her back to him, she could not tell
whether he observed her. Stealing a glance, she discovered that his
face was buried in his hands, and that the white table seemed to be
laid for ten covers. Scrutiny revealed ten bottles of wine around it,
the neck of each bottle embellished with a large crape bow. Curiosity
now held the lady wide-eyed, and, as luck would have it, the young man,
at this moment, raised his head.

"I trust that my agony does not disturb you, madame?" he inquired,