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One moonlit night, in an empty street in Paris, a door suddenly opened; and three persons were thrust violently out with much scuffling and cursing. One of them was a woman, elegantly dressed, but flushed with drink and excitement. The others were a loose-jointed, large-boned, fair young Englishman of about eighteen or twenty, and a slim Frenchman with pointed black moustaches and a vicious expression. The Englishman, like the woman, was heated and intoxicated: his companion was angry, but had not lost his selfcontrol. The moment they passed the threshold, the door was slammed; and the younger man, without heeding the torrent of foul utterance to which the woman promptly betook herself, began kicking the panels furiously.

“Bah!” said the woman, recovering herself with a shrill laugh. “Come, Anatole.” And she drew away her compatriot, who was watching the door-kicking process derisively.

“Hallo!” shouted the Englishman, hurrying after them. “Hallo, you! This lady stays with me, if you please. I should think that she has had about enough of you, you damned blackleg, since she has been pitched out of a gambling hell on your account. You had better clear out unless you want your neck broken — and if you were anything like a fair match for me, I’d break it as soon as look at you.”

“What does he say, Nata “ whispered the Frenchman, keeping his eye on the other as if he guessed his meaning.

The woman. with an insolent snap of her fingers, made a perfunctory translation of as much of the Englishman’s words as she understood.

“Look, you, little one, said the Frenchman, advancing to within a certain distance of his adversary, “the night air is not right for you. I would counsel you to go home and put yourself to bed, lest I should have to give your nurse the trouble of carrying you thither.”

“You advise me to go to bed, do you? I’ll let you see all about that.” retorted the young man, posing himself clumsily in attitude of an English pugilist, and breathing scorn at his opponent. Anatole instantly dealt him a kick beneath the nose which made him stagger. The pain of it was so intolerable that he raised his right hand to his mouth. The moment he thus uncovered his body, the Frenchman turned swiftly, and, looking back at his adversary over his shoulder, lashed out his toe with the vigor of a colt, and sent it into the pit of the young man’s stomach, flinging him into the roadway, supine, gasping, and all but insensible.

“Ha!” said Anatole, panting after this double feat. “Prrr’lotte! So much for thy English boxer, Nata.”

“Cre’matin! What a devil thou art, Anatole. Come, let us save ourselves.”

A minute later the street was again as quiet, and, except for the motionless body on the roadway, solitary as before. Presently a vehicle entered from a side street. It was a close carriage like an English brougham, and contained one passenger, a lady with a white woolen shawl wrapped about her head, and an opera cloak over her rich dress. She was leaning back in a deep reverie when the horse stopped so suddenly that she was thrown forward; and the coachman uttered a warning cry. Recovering herself, she looked out of the window, and, saw, with a sickening sensation, a man stagger out on his hands and knees from between the horse’s feet, and then roll over on his back with a long groaning sigh.

“My God!” exclaimed the lady, hastily opening the carriage door, and alighting. “Bring me one of the lamps. It is a young gentleman. Pray God he be not dead.”

The coachman reluctantly descended from his box, and approached with a lamp. The lady looked at him impatiently, expecting him to lift the insensible stranger; but he only looked down dubiously at him, and kept aloof.

“Can you not rouse him, or help him to stand up?” she said indignantly.

“I am not such a fool as that,” said the man. “Better not meddle with him. It is an affair for the police.”

The lady pouted scornfully and stooped over the sufferer, who lifted his eyes feebly. Seeing her face, he opened his eyes widely and quickly, looking up at her with wonder, and raising his hand appealingly. She caught it without hesitation, and said anxiously:

“You are better now, monsieur, are you not? I hope you are not seriously hurt.”

“Wha’s matter?” said the young man indistinctly. “Are you hurt?” she repeated in English.

“Nor’at all,” he replied, with drunken joviality.

Then he attempted to laugh, but immediately winced, and after a flew plunges, staggered to his feet. The coach man recoiled, but the lady did not move.

“Where is he,” he continued, looking round. “Yah! You’ll kick, will you? Come out, you coward. Come out and shew yourself. Yah! Kick, then run away and hide! I’ll slog the kicking out of you. Will you face me with your fists like a man?” He uttered the last sentence with an accession of fury, and menaced the coachman, who retreated. The stranger struck at him, but the blow, reaching nothing, swung the striker round until he was face to face with the lady, whom he regarded with astonishment.

“I beg your par’n,” he said, subsiding into humbleness. “I really beg your par’n. The fellow gave me a fearf’ kick in the face, and I barely know where I am yet. ‘Pon my soul,” he added, with foolish glee, “it’s the mos’extor’nary thing. Where has he gone?”

“Of whom do you speak” said the lady in French.

“Of — of — je parle d’polisson qui m’a donne un affreux coup de pied under the nose. Jái un grand desir dénfoncer ce lâche maudit.”

“Unhappily, monsieur, it was my horse that hurt you. I am in despair—”

“No, no. I tell you it was a fellow named Annatoal, a card sharper. If I ever catch him again, I’ll teach him the English version of the savate. I’ll kick him from one end of Paris to the other.” As he spoke he reeled against the carriage, and, as the horse stirred uneasily, clutched at the door to save himself from falling.

“ Madame,” said the coachman, who had been looking anxiously for the approach of the police: “do you not see that this is a sot? Better leave him to himself.”

“I am not drunk,” said the young man earnestly “I have been drinking; but upon my solemn word I am not drunk. I have been attacked and knocked about the head; and I feel very queer. I can’t remember how you came here exactly, though I remember your picking me up. I hope you won’t leave me.”

The lady, moved by his boyish appearance and the ingenious faith with which he made this appeal, was much perplexed, pitying, but not knowing what to do with him. “Where do you live?” she said. “I will drive you home with pleasure.”

He became very red. “Thanks awfully,” he said; “but the fact is, I don’t live anywhere in particular. I must go to some hotel. You are very kind; but I won’t trouble you any further. I am all right now.” But he was evidently not all right; for after standing a moment away from the carriage, shamefacedly waiting for the lady to reply, he sat down hastily on the kerbstone, and added, after panting a little, “You must excuse me, Mrs Herbert. I can’t stand very well yet. You had better leave me here: I shall pick myself up presently.”

“Tiens, tiens, tiens! You seem to know me, monsieur. I, too, recollect your face, but not your name.”

“Everybody knows you. You may have seen me at Mrs. Phipson’s, in London. I’ve been there when you were there. But really you’d better drive on. This house is a gambling den; and the people may come out at any minute. Don’t let your carriage be seen stopping here.”

“But I hardly like to leave you here alone and hurt.”

“Never mind me: it serves me right. Besides, I’d rather you’d leave me, I would indeed.”

She turned reluctantly toward the carriage, put her foot on the step, and looked back. He was gazing wistfully after her. “But it is inhuman!” she exclaimed, returning. “Come, monsieur, I dare not leave you in such a condition: it is the fault of my horse. I will bring you where you shall be taken care of until you are restored.”

“It’s awfully good of you” he murmured, rising unsteadily and making his way to the carriage door, which he held whilst she got in. He followed, and was about to place himself bashfully on the front seat, when the coachman, illhumoredly using his whip, started the vehicle and upset him into the vacant space next Aurélie. He uttered an imprecation, and sat bolt upright for a moment. Then, sinking back against the cushion, and moving his hand until it touched her dress, he said drowsily, “It’s really mos’awfully good of you,” and fell asleep.

He was aroused by a shaking which made his head ache. An old and ugly woman held him by one shoulder, and the coachman, cursing him for a besotted pig, was about to drag him out by the other. He started up and got out of the carriage, the two roughly saving him from stumbling forward. In spite of his protests that he could walk alone they pulled him indoors between them. He struggled to free himself, but the woman was too strong for him: he was hauled ignominiously into a decent room, where sofa had been prepared for him with a couple of rugs and a woman’s shawl. Here he was forced to lie down, and bidden to be quiet until the doctor came. The coachman, with a parting curse, then withdrew; and his voice, deferentially pitched, was audible as he reported what he had done to the lady without. There was another person speaking also; but she spoke in a tone of vehement remonstrance, and in a strange language.

“Look here, ma’am,” said the young man from the sofa. “You needn’t trouble sending for a doctor. There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“Silence, great sot,” chattered the old woman.”I have other things to do than to listen to thy gibberish. Lay thyself down this instant.”

“Will I, by Jove!” he said, kicking off the rug and sitting up. “Can you buy soda water anywhere at this hour?”

“Ah, ingrate! Is it thus that thou obeyest the noble lady who succored thee. Fie!”

“What is the matter, madame,” said Aurélie, entering.

“I was only asking her not to send for a doctor. I have no bones broken; and a doctor is no use. Please don’t fetch one. If I could have a little plain water — or even soda water — to drink, I should be all right.” Whilst he was speaking, an old lady appeared behind Aurélie. She seemed to suffer from a severe cold; for she had tied up her face in a red handkerchief, which gave her a grim aspect as she looked resentfully at him.

“I shall bring you some drink,” said Aurélie quietly. “Mamma,” she added, turning to the older lady; “pray return to your bed. Your face will be swollen again if you stand in the draught. I have but to get this young gentleman what he asks for.”

“The young gentleman has no business here,” said the lady. “You are imprudent, Aurélie, and frightfully self-willed.” She then disappeared. The stranger reddened and attempted to rise; but Aurélie, also blushing, quieted him by a gesture, whilst the old woman shook her fist at him. Aurélie then left the room, promising to return, and leaving him alone with the woman, who seized the opportunity to recommence her reproaches, which were too voluble to be intelligible to the English ears of the patient.

“You may just as well hold your tongue,” he said, as she paused at last for a reply, “for I don’t understand a word you say.”

“Say then, coquin,” repeated the woman, “what wert thou doing in the roadway there when thou gotst beneath the horse’s feet?”

“Je m’ètais évanoui.”

“How? Ah, I understand, But why? What brought thee to such a pass?”

“N’ímporte. Cést pas convenable pour une juene femme d’entendre pareilles choses. That ought to fetch you if you can understand it.

“Ah, thou mockst me. Knowest thou, profligate, that thou art in my apartment, and that I have the right to throw you through the door if I please? Eh?”

“Votre discours se fait trés penible, ma mere. Voulez-vous avoir la bonté de shut up?”

“What does that mean?” said the woman, checked by the unknown verb.

‘Oh, you are talking too much,” said Aurélie, returning with some soda water. “You must not encourage him to speak, madame.”

“He needs little encouragement,” said the old woman. “You are far too good for him, mademoiselle.”

“How do you feel now, monsieur? Better, I hope.”

“Thanks very much: I feel quite happy. I have something to shew you. Just wait a—” Here he twisted himself round upon his elbow, and after some struggling with the rug and his coat, pulled from his breast pocket some old letters, which presently slipped from his hand and were scattered on the floor.

“Sot,” cried the old woman, darting at them, and angrily pushing back the hand with which he was groping for them. “Here — put them up again. What has madame to do with thy letters, thinkst thou?”

“Don’t you be in a hurry, Mrs. Jones,” he retorted confidently, beginning to fumble at the letters. “Where the — I’ll take my oath I had it this mor — oh, here it is. Did you ever see him before?” he asked triumphantly, handing a photograph to Aurélie.

“Tiens! it is Adrian,” she exclaimed. “My husband,” she added, to the old woman, who received the explanation sardonically. “Are you then a friend of Monsieur Herbert?”

“I have known him since I was a boy, “ said the youth. Aurélie smiled: she thought him a boy still. “But this was only taken last week,” she said. “I have only just received a copy for myself. Did he send it to you?”

“My sister sent it to me. I suppose you know who I am now.”

“No, truly, monsieur. I have seen you certainly; but I cannot recall your name.”

“You’ve seen me at Phipson’s, talking to Mr. Jack. Can’t you guess?”

Aurélie shook her head. The old woman, curious, but unable to follow a conversation carried on by one party in French and by the other in English, muttered impatiently, “What gibberish! It is a horror.”

The youth looked shyly at Aurélie. “Then, as if struck by a new thought, he said, “My name is — Beatty.”

Aurélie bowed. “Yes,” she said, “I have assuredly heard my husband speak of that name. I am greatly troubled to think that your misfortune should have been brought about by my carriage. Madame: Monsieur Beatty will need a pillow. Will you do me the kindness to bring one from my room?”

Monsieur Beatty began to protest that he would prefer to remain as he was, but he was checked by a gesture from the woman, who silently pointed to a pillow which was on a chair.

“Ah, true. Thank you,” said Aurélie, “Now, let me see. Yes, he had better have my little gong,in case he should become worse in the night, and need to summon help. It is on my table, I believe.

The old woman looked hard at Aurélie for a moment, and withdrew slowly.

“Now that that lady is gone,” said the patient, blushing, “I want to tell you how grateful I am for the way you have helped me. If you knew what I felt when I opened my eyes as I lay there on the stones, and saw your face looking down at me, you would feel sure, without being told, that I am ready to do anything to prove my gratitude. I wish I could die for you. Not that that would be much; for my life is not worth a straw to me or anyone else. I am old enough to be tired of it.”

“Young enough to be tired of it, you mean,” said Aurélie, laughing, but pleased by his earnestness. “Well, I do not doubt that you are very grateful. How did you come under my carriage? Were you really knocked down; or did you only dream it?”

“I was really knocked down. I can’t tell you how it came about. It served me right; for I was where I had no business to be — in bad company.”

“Ah,” said Aurélie gravely, approaching him with the pillow. “You must not do so any more, if we are to remain friends.”

“I will never do so again, so help me God!” he protested. “You have cured me of all taste for that sort of thing.”

“Raise yourself for one moment — so,” said Aurélie, stooping over him and placing the pillow beneath his head. His color rose as he looked up at her. Then, as she was in the act of withdrawing, he uttered, a stifled exclamation; threw his arm about her; and pressing his lips to her cheek, was about to kiss her, when he fell back with a sharp groan, and lay bathed in perspiration, and flinching from the pain of his wounded face. Aurélie, astonished and outraged, stood erect and regarded him indignantly.

“Ah,” she said. “That was an unworthy act. You, whom I have succored — my husband’s friend! My God, is it possible that an English gentleman can be so base!”

“Curse the fellow!” cried the young man, writhing and shedding tears of pain. “Give me something to stop this agony — some chloroform or something. Send for a doctor. I shall go mad. Oh, Lord !”

“You deserve it well,” said Aurélie, “Come, monsieur, control yourself. This is childish.” As he subsided, exhausted, and only fetching a deep sigh at intervals, she relented and called the old woman who seemed to have been waiting outside for she came at once.

“He has hurt his wound,” said Aurélie in an undertone. “What can we do for him?”

The woman shrugged herself, and had nothing to suggest. “Let him make the best of it,” she said, “I can do nothing for him.”

They stood by the sofa and watched him for some time in silence. At last he opened his eyes, and began to appear more at ease.

“Would you like to drink something?” said Aurélie coldly.

“Yes.”

“Give him some soda water,” she said to the old woman.

“Never mind,” he said, speaking indistinctly in his effort to avoid stirring his upper lip. “I don’t want anything. The cartilage of my nose is frightfully tender, but the pain is going off.

“It is now very late, and I must retire, monsieur. Can we do anything further to ensure your comfort?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Aurélie turned to go.

“Mrs, Herbert.” She paused. “I suppose no one could behave worse than I have. Never mind my speaking before the old lady: she doesn’t understand me. I wish you would forgive me. I have been severely punished. You cannot even imagine the torture I have undergone in the last ten minutes.”

“If you regret your conduct as you ought,” began Aurélie severely.

“I am ashamed of it and of myself; and I will try hard to be sorry — in fact, I am very sorry I was disappointed. I should be more than mortal if I felt otherwise. But I will never do such a thing again.”

“Adieu, monsieur,” said Aurélie coldly. “I shall not see you again, as you will be gone before I am abroad tomorrow.” And she left the room with a gravity that quelled him.

“What hast thou been doing now, rogue?” said the old woman, preparing to follow Aurélie. “What is it thou shouldst regret?”

By way of reply, he leered at her, and stretched out his arms invitingly.

“Thou shalt go out from my house tomorrow,” she said threateningly; and went out, taking the lamp with her. He laughed, and composed himself for sleep. But he was thirsty and restless, and his face began to pain him continuously. The moon was still shining; and by its light he rose and prowled about softly in his stockings, prying into drawers and chiffoniers, and bringing portable objects to the window, where he could see them better.

When he had examined everything, he sparred at the mantelpiece, and imagined

himself taking vengeance on Anatole. At last, having finished the soda water, he lay down again, and slept uneasily until six o’clock, when he rose and looked at himself in a mirror. His hair was disheveled and dusty; his lip discolored; his eyes were inflamed; but the thought of rubbing his soiled face with a towel, or even touching it with water made him wince. Seeing that he was unpresentable, and being sober enough to judge his last nights conduct, he resolved to make off before any of the household were astir. Accordingly, he made himself as clean as he could without hurting himself. From his vest pockets, which contained fourteen francs, an English half-crown, a latchkey. a lead pencil, and a return ticket to Charing Cross, he took ten francs and left them on the table with a scrap of paper inscribed Pour la belle propriétaire — Hommage du misérable Anglais.” Then, on another scrap, which he directed to Aurélie, as follows:

“I hope you will forgive me for behaving like an unmitigated cad last night, As I was not sober and had had my sense almost knocked out of me by a foul blow, I was hardly accountable for what I was doing. I can never repay your kindness nor expiate my own ingratitude; but please do not say anything about me to Mr Herbert, as you would get me into no end of trouble by doing so. I am running away early early because I should be ashamed to look you in the face now that I have recovered my senses — Yours, most gratefully—”

He “took several minutes to consider how he should sign this note. Eventually he put down the initial C only. After draining the soda-water bottle of the few flat and sickly drops he had left in it the night before, he left the room and crept downstairs, where he succeeded in letting himself out without alarming the household. The empty street looked white and spacious in the morning sun; and the young man — first looking round to see that no one was at hand to misinterpret his movements — took to his heels and ran until he turned a corner and saw a policeman, who seemed half disposed to arrest him on suspicion. Escaping this danger, he went on until he found a small eating house where some workmen were breakfasting. Here he procured a cheap but plentiful meal,and was directed to the railway station, whither he immediately hastened. A train had just arrived as he entered. As he stood for a moment to watch the passengers coming out, a hand was laid gently on his arm. He turned, and confronted Adrian Herbert, who looked at him with a quiet smile.

“Well, Charlie,” he said: “so this is Hounslow, is it? What particular branch of engineering are you studying here?”

“Who told you I was at Hounslow?” said Charlie, with a grin.

“Your father, whom I met yesterday at Mrs. Hoskyn’s. He told me that you were working very hard at engineering with a tutor. I am sorry to see that your exertions have quite knocked you up.”

“On the contrary, somebody else’s exertions have knocked me down. No, I ran over here a few days ago for a little change. Of course I didn’t mention it to the governor: he thinks Paris a sink of iniquity. You needn’t mention it to him either, unless you like.”

“I hope I am too discreet for that. Did you know that Mrs. Herbert is in Paris?”

“Is she? No, I didn’t know it: I thought she was with you in Kensington. I hope you will have a good time here. ‘‘

“Thank you. How long do you intend to stay?”

“Oh, I am going back directly. If I don’t get a train soon, I shall starve; for I have only two or three francs left to keep me in sandwiches during the voyage.”

“Draw on me if you are inconvenienced.”

Thanks,” said Carlie, coloring. “but I can get on well enough with what I have — at least if you could spare me I if you could spare me five franks — Thanks awfully. I have run a rig rather this time; for I owe Mary five pounds already on the strength of this trip. It is a mistake coming to Paris. I wish I had stayed at home.”

“Well, at least you have had some experience for your money. What has happened to your lip? Is it a bruise?”

“Yes, I got a toss. It’s nothing. I’m awfully obliged for—”

“Not at all. Have you breakfasted yet? What, already! You are an early bird. I was thinking of asking you to breakfast with me. I do not wish to disturb my wife too early, and so will have to kill some time for a while. By the by, have you ever been introduced to her?

“No,” “said Charlie hastily; but nothing would induce to me to face her in this trim. I know I look a perfect blackguard. I can’t wash my face; and I have a blue and and green spot right here” — touching the hollow of his chest— “which would make me screech if anyone rubbed me with a brush. In fact I shall take it as a particular favor if you wont mention to her that you have met me. Not that it matters much, of course; but still—”

“Very well, I shall not breathe a word of it to anyone. Goodbye.*’

Charlie shook his hand; and they parted. “Now,” thought Charlie, looking after him with a grin, and jingling the borrowed money in his pocket, “if his wife will only hold her tongue, I shall be all right. I wish she was my wife.” And heaving a sigh, he walked slowly away to inquire about the trains.

Herbert breakfasted alone. When his appetite was appeased, he sat trying to read, and looking repeatedly at his watch. He had resolved not to seek his wife until ten o’clock; but he had miscalculated his patience; and he soon convinced himself that half past nine, or even nine, would be more convenient. Eventually he arrived at ten minutes to nine, and found Madame Szczympliça alone at table in an old crimson bed gown, with her hair as her pillow had left it.

“Monsieur Adrian!” she exclaimed, much discomposed. “Ah, you take us by surprise. I had but just stepped in to make coffee for the little one. She will be enchanted to see you. And I also.”

“Do not let me disturb you. I have breakfasted already. Is Aurélie up?”

“She will be here immediately. How delighted she will be! Are you quite well?”

Not badly, madame. And you?” I have suffered frightfully with my face. Last night I was unable to go to the concert with Aurélie. It is a great misfortune for me, this neuralgia.”

“I am very sorry. It is indeed a terrible affliction. Are you quite sure that Aurélie is not fast asleep?”

“I have made her coffee, mon cher; and I know her too well to do that before she is afoot. Trust me, she will be here in a moment. I hope it is nothing wrong that has brought you to Paris.”

“Oh no. I wanted a little change; and when you came so near, I determined to run over and meet you. You have been all round Europe since I last saw you.”

“Ah, what successes, Monsieur Adrian! You cannot figure to yourself how she was received at Budapesth. And at Leipzig too! It was — behold her!”

Aurélie stopped on the threshold and regarded Adrian with successive expressions of surprise, protest and resignation. He advanced and kissed her cheek gently, longing to clasp her in his arms, but restrained by the presence of her mother. Aurélie paused on her way to the table just long enough to suffer this greeting, and then sat down, exclaiming:

“I knew it! I knew it from that last letter! Oh thou silly one! Could not Mrs. Hoskyn console thee for yet another week?”

“How Indifferent she is,” said Madame Sczympliça. “She is glad at heart to see you, Mr. Adrian.” Now, this interference of his motherin law, though made with amiable intention, irritated Herbert. He smiled politely, and turned a little away from her and towards Aurélie”.

“And SO you have had nothing but triumphs since we parted,” he said, looking fondly at her.

“What do you know of my triumphs!” she said, raising her head. “You only care for the tunes that one whistles in the streets’ At Prague I turned the world upside down with Monsieur Jacques fantasia. How long do you intend to stay here’”

“Until you can return with me, of course.”

“A whole week. You will be tired of your life, unless you go to the Louvre or some such stupidity, and paint.”

“I shall be content, Aurélie, never fear. Perhaps you will grow a little tired of me.”

“Oh no, I shall be too busy for that. I have to practise, and to attend rehearsals, and concerts, and private engagements. Oh, I shall not have time to think of you.”

“Private engagements. Do you mean playing at private houses?”

“Yes. This afternoon I play at the reception of the Princess — what is she called, mamma?”

“It does not matter what she is called,” said Herbert. “Surely you are not paid for playing on such occasions?”

“What! You do not suppose that I play for nothing for people whom I do not know — whose very names I forget. No, I play willingly for my friends, or for the poor; but if the great world wishes to hear me, it must pay. Why do you look so shocked? Would you, then, decorate the saloon of the Princess with pictures for nothing, if she asked you?”

“It is not exactly the same thing — at least the world does not think so, Aurélie. I do not like the thought of you going into society as a hired entertainer.”

Aurélie shrugged herself. “I must go for some reason,” she said. “If they did not pay me I should not go at all. It is an artist’s business to do such things.”

“My dear Mr. Adrian,” said Madame Szczympliça, “she is always the most honored guest. The most distinguished persons crowd about her; and the most beautiful women are deserted for her. It is always a veritable little court that she holds.”

“It is as I thought,” said Aurélie. “You came across the Channel only to quarrel with me.” Herbert attempted to protest; but she went on without heeding him. “Mamma: have you finished your breakfast?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Then go; and put off that terrible robe of thine. Leave us to ourselves: if we must quarrel, there is no reason why you should be distressed by our bickerings”

“I hope you are not really running away from me,” said Herbert, politely accompanying Madame Sczympliça to the door, and opening it for her.

“No, no, mon cher,” she replied with a Sigh. “I must do as I am bidden. I grow old; and she becomes a greater tyrant daily to all about her.”

“Now, malcontent,” said Aurélie, when the door was closed, “proceed with thy reproaches. How many thousand things hast thou to complain of? Let us hear how sad it has made thee to think that I have been happy and successful, and that thou hast not once been able to cast my happiness back in my — Heaven wouldst th eat me, Adrian?” He was straining her to his breast and kissing her vehemently.

“You are rightt,” he said breathlessly. “Love is altogether selfish. Every fresh account of your triumphs only redoubled my longing to have you back with me again. You do not know what I Buffered during all these weary weeks. I lived in my studio, and tried to paint you out of my head; but I could not paint your out of my heart. My work, which once seemed a wifer thing than my mind could contain, was only a wearisome trade to me. I rehearsed imaginary versions of our next meeting” for hours together, whilst my picture hung forgotten before me. I made a hundred sketches of you, and, in my rage at their badness, destroyed them as fast as I made them. In the evenings, I either wandered about the streets thinking of you”

“Or went to see Mrs. Hoskyn?”

“Who told you that?” said Herbert, discomfited.

“Ah!” cried Aurélie, laughing — almost crowing with delight, “I guessed it. Oh, that poor Monsieur Hoskyn! And me also! Is this thy fidelity — this the end of all thy thoughts of me?”

“I wish your jealousy were real,” said Herbert, with a sort of desperation. “I believe you would not care if I had gone to Mrs. Hoskyn as her lover. Why did I go to her? Simply because she was the only friend I had who would listen patiently whilst I spoke endlessly of you — she, whose esteem I risked, and whose respect I fear I lost, for your sake. But I have ceased to respect myself now, Aurélie. It is my misfortune to love you so much that you make light of me for being so infatuated.”

“Well,” said Aurélie soothingly, “you must try and not love me so much. I will help you as much as I can by making myself very disagreeable. I am far too indulgent to you, Adrian.”

“You hurt me sometimes very keenly, Aurélie, though you do not intend it. But I have never loved you less for that. I fear your plan would make me worse.”

“Ah, I see. You want to be made love to, and cured in that way.”

“I am afraid I should go mad then, Aurélie.”

“I will not try. I think you are very injudicious to care so much for love. To me, it is the most stupid thing in the world. I prefer music. No matter, my cherished one: I am very fond of thee, in spite of thy follies. Art thou not my husband? Now I must make an end here, and go to practise.”

“Never mind practising this morning, Aurdlie. Let us talk.”

“Why, have we not already talked? No, when I miss my little half hour of seeking for my fine touch, I play as all the world; and that is not just to myself, or to the Princess, who pays me more than she pays the others. One must be honest, Adrian. There, your face is clouded again. You are ashamed of me.”

“It is because I am so proud of you that I shrink from the thought of your talent being marketed. Let us change the subject. Have you met any of our friends in Paris?”

“Not one. I have not heard an English voice since we came here. But I must not stop to gossip.” She took his hand , pressed it for an instant against her bosom; and left the room. Herbert, troubled by the effort to enjoy fully the delight this caress gave him, sat down for a moment, panting. When he was calmer, he took his hat and went downstairs, intending to take a stroll in the sunshine. he was arrested at the door of one of the lower rooms by the porter’s wife, who held in her shaking hand some money and a scrap of paper, the sight of which seemed to frenzy her; for she was railing volubly at some person unknown to Adrian. lie looked at her with some curiosity, and was about to pass on, when she stepped before him.

“Look you, monsieur,” she said. “Be so good as to tell madame that my house is not a hospital for sots. And tell your friend, he whose nose someone has righteously crushed, that he had better take good care not to come to see me again. I will make him a bad quarter of an hour if he does.”

“My friend, madame!” said Herbert, alarmed by her shrewishness.

“Your wife’s friend, then, whom she brings home drunk in her carriage at midnight, and who kicks my sofa to pieces, and makes shameless advances to me beneath my husband’s roof, and flies like a thief in the night, leaving for me this insult.” And she held out the scrap of paper to Adrian. “With ten francs. What is ten francs to me!” Adrian, bewildered, looked unintelligently at the message. “Come you, monsieur, and see for yourself that I speak truly,” she continued, bringing him by a gesture into the room. “See there, my sofa ripped up and soiled with his heels. See madame’s fine rug trampled on the floor. See the pillow which she put under his wicked head with her own hands—”

“What are you talking about?” said Adrian sternly. For whom do you take me?”

“Are you not Monsieur Herbert?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I should think so. Well, Monsieur Herbert, it is your dear friend, who carries your portrait next his heart, who has treated me thus.”

“Really,” said Adrian, “I do not understand you. You speak of me — of my wife — of some friend of mine with my portrait—”

“And the nose of him crushed.”

“ — all in a breath. What do you mean? As you know, I only arrived here this morning.”

“Truly, monsieur, you have arrived a day after the fair. All I tell y<>u is that madame came home last night with a drunken robber, a young English sprig, who slept here. He has run away; and heaven knows what he has taken with him. He leaves me this money, and this note to mock me because I scorned his vile seductions. Behold the table where he left it.”

Adrian, hardly venturing to understand the woman, looked upon the table, and saw a note which had escaped her attention. She, following his glance, exclaimed:

“What! Another.”

“It is addressed to my wife,” said Adrian, taking it, and losing color as he did so. “Doubtless it contains an explanation of his conduct. I recognize the handwriting as that of a young friend of mine. Did you hear his name?”

“It was an English name. English names are all alike to me.

“Did he call himself Sutherland?”

“Yes, it was like that, quite English.”

“It is all right then. He is but a foolish boy, the brother of an old friend of mine.”

“Truly a strong boy for his years. He is your old friend, of course. It is always so. Ah, monsieur, if I were one to talk and make mischief, I could—”

“Thank you,” said Adrian, interrupting her firmly. “I can hear the rest from Madame Herbert, if there is anything else to hear.” And he left the room. On the landing without, he saw Madame Sczympliça, who, overlooking him, addressed herelf angrily to the old woman.

“Why is this noise made?” she demanded. “How is it possible for Mademoiselle to practise with this hurly-burly in her ears?”

“And why should I not make a noise,” retorted the woman, “when I am insulted in my own house by the friends of Mademoiselle?”

“What is the matter?” cried a voice from above. The woman became silent as if struck dumb; and for a moment there was no sound except the light descending footfall of Aurélie. “What is the matter?” she repeated, as she came into their view.

“Nothing at all,” muttered the old woman sulkily, glancing apprehensively at Adrian.

“You make a very great noise about nothing at all,” said Aurélie coolly, pausing with her hand on the balustrade. “Have you quite done; and may I now practise in peace?”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” said the woman apologetically, but still grumbling. “I was speaking to Monsieur.”

“Monsieur must either go out, or come upstairs and read the journals quietly,” said Aurélie.

“I will come upstairs,” said Adrian, in a tone that made her look at him with momentary curiosity. The old woman meanwhile retreated into her apartment; and Madame Sczympliça, who had listened submissively to her daughter, disappeared also. Aurélie, on returning to the room in which she practised, found herself once more alone with Adrian.

“Oh, it is a troublesome woman,” she said. “All proprietresses are so. I should like to live in a palace with silent black slaves to come and go when I clap my hands. She has spoiled my practice. And you seem quite put out.”

“I — Aurélie: I met Mrs. Hoskyn’s brother at the railway station this morning.”

“Really! I thought he was in India.”

“I mean her younger brother.”

“Ah, I did not know that she had another.”

Herbert Looked aghast at her. She had spoken carelessly, and was brushing some specks of dust from the keyboard of the pianoforte, as to the cleanliness of which she was always fastidious.

“He did not tell me that he had seen you, Aurélie,” he said, controlling himself. “Under the circumstances I thought that rather strange. He even affected surprise when I mentioned that you were in Paris.”

She forgot the keyboard, and looked at him with wonder and some amusement “You thought it very Strange!” she said. “What are you dreaming of? What else should he say, since he never saw me, nor I him, in our lives — except at a concert? Have I not said that I did not know of his existence until you told me?”

“Aurélie he exclaimed in a strange voice, turning pallid. She also changed color; came to him quickly; and caught his arm, saying, “Heaven! What is the matter with thee?”

“Aurélie,” he said, recovering his selfcontrol, and disengaging himself quietly from her hold; “pray be serious. Why should you, even in jest, deceive me about Sutherland? If he has done anything wrong, I will not blame you for it.”

She retreated a step, and slowly raised her head and slowly raised her head in a haughtier attitude. “You speak of deceit!” she said. Then, shaking her finger at him, she added indignantly, “Ah, take care, Adrian, take care.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said sternly, “that you have not made the acquaintance of Sutherland here?”

“I do tell you so. And it seems to me that you do not believe me.”

“And that he has not passed the night here.”

“Oh!” she cried, and shrank a little.

“Aurélie,” he said, with a menacing expression which so disfigured and debased his face that she involuntarily recoiled and covered her eyes with her hands: “I have never before opened a letter addressed to you; but I will do so now. There are occasions when confidence is mere infatuation; and it is time, I fear, to shew you that my infatuation is not so blind as you suppose. This note was left for you this morning, under circumstances which have been explained to me by the woman downstairs.” A silence followed whilst he opened the note and read it. Then, looking up, and finding her looking at him quite calmly, he said sadly, “There is nothing in it that you need be ashamed of, Aurélie. You might have told me the truth. It is in the handwriting of Charlie Sutherland.”

This startled her for a moment. “Ah,” she said, “the scamp gave me a false name. But as for thee, unhappy one,” she added, as a ray of hope appeared in Herbert’s eyes, “adieu for ever.” And she was gone before he recovered himself.

His first impulse was to follow her and apologize, so simply and completely did her exclamation that Sutherland had given her a false name seem to explain her denial of having met him. Then he asked himself how came she to bring home a young man in her carriage; and why had she made a secret of it? She had said, he now remembered, that she had not heard any English voice except his own since she had come to Paris. Herbert was constitutionally apt to feel at a disadvantage with other men, and to give credit to the least sign that they were preferred to himself. He did not even now accuse his wife of infidelity; but he had long felt that she misunderstood him, withheld her confidence from him, and kept him apart from those friends of hers in whose society she felt happy and unrestrained. In the thought of this there was for him there was more jealousy and mortification than a coarser man might have suffered from a wicked woman. Whilst he was thinking over it all, the door opened and Madame Sczympliça, in tears, entered hastily.

“My God, Monsieur Adrian, what is the matter betwixt you and Aurélie?”

“Nothing at all,’ said Herbert, with constrained politeness. “Nothing of any consequence.”

“Do not tell me that,” she protested pathetically. “I know her too well to believe it. She is going away and she will not tell me why. And now you will not tell me either. I am made nothing of.”

“Did you say she is going away?*

“Yes. What have you done to her? — my poor child!”

Herbert did not feel bound to account for his conduct to his motherin-law: yet he felt that she was entitled to some answer. “Madame Sczympliça, “ he said, after a moment’s reflexion: “can you tell me under what circumstances Aurélie met the young gentleman who was here last night?”

“That is it, is it? I knew it: I told Aurélie that she was acting foolishly. But there was nothing in that to quarrel about.”

“I do not say there was. How did it happen?”

“Nothing in the world but this. I had neuralgia; and Aurélie would not suffer me to accompany her to the concert. As she was returning, her carriage knocked down this miserable boy, who was drunk. You know how impetuous she is. She would not leave him there insensible; and she took him into the carriage and brought him here. She made the woman below harbor him for the night in her sitting room. That is all.”

“But did he not behave himself badly?”

“Mon cher, he was drunk — drunk as a beast, with his nose beaten in.”

“It is strange that Aurélie never told me of such a remarkable incident.”

“Why, you are not an hour arrived; and the poor child has been full of the joy and surprise of seeing you so unexpectedly. It is necessary to be reasonable, Monsieur Adrian.”

“The fact is, madame, that I have had a misunderstanding with Aurélie in which neither of us was to blame. I should not have doubted her, perhaps; but I think, under the circumstances, my mistake was excusable. I owe her an apology, and will make it at once.”

Wait a little, “ said Madame Szczympliça nervously, as he moved towards the door. “You had better let me go first: I will ask her to receive you. She is excessively annoyed.”

Herbert did not like this suggestion; but he submitted to it, and sat down at the pianoforte to await Madame Sczympliça’s return. To while away the time and and to persuade himself that he was not too fearful of the result of her mission he played softly as much of his favorite Mendelssohnian airs as conld be accompanied by the three chords which exhausted his knowledge of the art of harmonizing. At last, after a long absence, bis motherin-law returned, evidently much troubled.

“I am a most unlucky mother,” she said, seating herself, and trying to keep back her tears. “She will not listen to me. Oh, Monsieur Adrien, what can have passed between you to enrage her so? You, who are always so gentle! — she will not let me mention your name.”

“But have you explained to her — ?”

“What is the use of explaining? She is not rational.”

“What does she say?”

“She says absurd things. Recollect that she is as yet only a child. She says you have betrayed your real opinion of her at last. I told her that circumstances seemed at the time to prove that she had acted foolishly, but that you now admitted your error.”

“And then—”

“Then she said that her maid might have doubted her, and afterwards admitted her error on the same ground. Oh, she is a strange creature, is Aurélie. What can one do with such a terrible child? She is positive that she will never speak to you again; and I fear she is in earnest. I can do no more. I have argued — implored — wept; but she is an ingrate, a heart of marble.”

Here there was a tap at the door; and a servant appeared.

“Madame Herbert wishes you to accompany her to the pianoforte place, madame. She is going thither to practise.”

Herbert only looked downcast; and Madame Szczympliça left the room stifling a sob. Herbert knew not what to do. A domestic quarrel involving the interference of a motherin-law had always seemed to him an incident common among vulgar people, but quite foreign to his own course of life; and now that it had actually occurred to him, he felt humiliated. He found a little relief as the conviction grew upon him that he, and not Aurélie, was to blame. There was nothing new to him in the reflexion that he had been weak and hasty: there would be pleasure in making reparation, in begging her forgiveness, in believing in and loving her more than ever. But this would be on condition that she ultimately forgave him, of which he did not feel at all sure, as indeed he never felt sure of her on any point, not even that she had really loved him.

In this state of mind he saw her carriage arrive, and heard her descend the stairs and pass the door of the room where he was. Whilst he was hesitating as to whether he should go out and speak to her then, she drove away; and the opportunity, now that it was lost, seemed a precious one. He went downstairs, and asked the old woman when she expected Madame Herbert to return. Not until six o’clock, she told him. he resigned himself to eight hours’ suspense, and went to the Luxembourg, where he enjoyed such pleasure as he could obtain by admiring the works of men who could paint better than he. It was a long day; but it came to an end at last.

“I will announce you, monsieur,” said the old woman hastily, as she admitted him at half-past six.

“No,” he said firmly, resolved not to give Aurélie an opportunity of escaping from him. “I will announce myself.” And he passed the portress, who seemed disposed, but afraid, to bar his path. As he went up, he heard the pianoforte played in a style which he hardly recognized. The touch was hard and impatient; and false notes were struck, followed by almost violent repetitions of the passage in which they occurred. He stood at the door a moment, listening.

“My child,” said Madame Sczympliça’s voice: “that is not practice. You become worse every moment: and you are spoiling the instrument.”

“Let me alone. It is a detestable piano; and I hope I may break it.”

Herbert’s courage sank at the angry tone of his wife’s voice.

“You let yourself be put out by nothing at all. Do I not tell you that everybody thought you played like an angel?”

“I will not be told so again. I played vilely. I will give up music. I hate it: and I never shall be able to play. I have tried and failed. It was a mistake for me ever to have attempted it.”

At this moment Adrian, hearing the footsteps of the old woman, who was coming up to listen at the keyhole, entered the room. Madame Sczympliça stared at him in consternation. He walked quickly across the room, and sat down close to his wife at the pianoforte.

“Aurélie,” he said: “you must forgive me.”

“Never, never, never,” she cried, turning quickly round so as to confront him. “I have this day disgraced myself: and it is your fault.”

“My fault, Aurélie?”

“Do not call me Aurélie. Now you smile because you have had your revenge. Am I not unhappy enough without being forced to see and speak to you, who have made me unhappy? Go: disembarrass me, or I will myself seek some other roof. What madness possessed me, an artist, to marry? Did I not know that it is ever the end of an artist’s career?”

“You cannot believe, “ he said, much agitated, “that I would wilfully cause you a moment’s pain. I love—”

“Ah, yes, you love me. It is because you love me that you insult me. It is because you love me that you are ashamed of me and reproach me with playing for hire. It is because you love me that I have failed before the whole world, and lost the fruit of long years of work. You will find my mother’s scissors in that box. Why do you not cut off my fingers, since you have paralysed them?”

Adrian, shuddering in every fibre at the suggestion, caught her proffered fingers and squeezed them in his hands. “My darling,” he said: “you pain me acutely by your reproaches. Will you not forgive me?”

“You waste your breath,” she said obdurately, disengaging herself petulantly. “I am not listening to you.” And she began to play again.

“Aurélie,” he said presently.

She played attentively, and did not seem to hear him.

“Aurélie,” he repeated urgently. No answer. “Do cease that horrible thing, my darling, and listen to me.”

This stopped her. She turned with tears in her eyes, and exclaimed, “Yes, it is horrible. Everything that I touch is horrible now.” She shut the piano as she spoke. “I will never open it more. Mamma.”

“My angel,” replied Madame Sczympliça, starting.

“Tell them to send for it tomorrow. I do not want even to see it when I come down in the morning.”

“But,” said Herbert, “you quite misunderstand me. Can you suppose that I think your playing horrible, or that, if I thought it, I would be so brutal as to say so.

“You do think it horrible. Everyone finds it horrible. So you are right.”

“It was only what you were playing”

“I was one of Chopin’s studies. You used to like Chopin. You would do better to be silent: every word you utter betrays your real thoughts.”

Herbert gently reopened the pianoforte. “If it were the singing of angels, Aurélie, it would be horrible to me as long as it delayed the assurance I am waiting for — of your forgiveness.”

“You shall never have it. Nor do I believe that you care for it.”

“Never is a long word. You have said it very often this evening, Aurélie. You will never play again. You will never speak to me again. You will never forgive me.”

“Do not argue with me. You fatigue me.” She turned away, and began to improvise, looking upward at the cornice with a determined expression which gradually faded and vanished. Herbert, discouraged by her last retort, did not venture to interrupt her until the last trace of displeasure had disappeared from her face. Then he pleaded in a low voice. “Aurélie.” The frown reappeared instantly. “Do not stop playing. I only wish to assure you that I was not jealous this morning.”

“O — h!” she ejaculated, taking her hands from the keyboard, and letting them fall supine in her lap. Herbert, taken aback by the prolonged and expressive interjection, looked at her in silent discomfiture. “Mamma: thou hearest him! He says he was not jealous. Oh, Adrian, how art thou fallen, thou, who wast truth itself! Thou art learning to play the husband well.”

“I thought you had deceived me, dearest; but I was not jealous.”

“Then you do not love me.”

“Let me explain. I thought you had deceived me in your account of — of that wretched boy whom we shall never allude to again—”

“There, there. Do not remind me of it. You were base: you were beneath yourself: no explanation can change that. But my failure at the Princess’s is so much greater a misfortune that it has put all that out of my head.”

“Aurélie,” remonstrated Herbert involuntarily.

“What! you begin to complain already — before I have half relented?”

“I know too well,” he replied sadly, “that your art is as much dearer to you than I, as you are dearer to me than mine. Well, well, I plead guilty to everything except want of love for you. Now will you forgive me?”

Instead of replying she began to play merrily. Presently she looked over her shoulder, and said, “You will promise never to commit such a sin again.”

“I swear it.”

“And you are very sorry?”

“I am desolate, Auré1ie.”

“Be pardoned, then. If thou art truly penitent, I will accompany thee to the Louvre; and thou shalt shew me the pictures.”

She played away without intermission whilst she spoke, disregarding the kiss which he, in spite of Madame Sczympliça’s presence, could not refrain from pressing on her cheek.