In the Quarter. Chambers Robert William

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      She glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him:

      ``Forgive me; I would not change places with a queen.''

      ``Nor I with any man!'' he cried gayly. ``Am I not Paris?''

      ``And I?''

      ``You are Hélène,'' he said, laughing. ``Let me see – Paris and Hélène would not have changed – ''

      She interrupted him impatiently. ``Words! you do not mean them. Nor do I, either,'' she added, hastily. After that neither spoke for a while. Gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. Presently she glanced up.

      ``Paris, do you want to smoke?''

      ``You don't think I would smoke in this dainty nest?''

      ``Please do, I like it. We are – we will be such very good friends. There are matches on that table in the silver box.''

      He shook his head, laughing. ``You are too indulgent.''

      ``I am never indulgent, excepting to myself. But I have caprices and I generally die when they are not indulged. This is one. Please smoke.''

      ``Oh, in that case, with Hélène's permission.''

      She laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. There was another long pause, then she began again:

      ``Paris, you speak French very well.''

      He came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet.

      ``Do I, Hélène?''

      ``Yes – but you sing it divinely.''

      Gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, ``Yes 'tis a dream – a dream of love,'' he repeated, but stopped.

      Yvonne's temples and throat were crimson.

      ``Please open the window,'' she cried, ``it's so warm here.''

      ``Hélène, I think you are blushing,'' said he, mischievously.

      She turned her head away from him. He rose and opened the window, leaning out a moment; his heart was beating violently. Presently he returned.

      ``It's one o'clock.''

      No answer.

      ``Hélène, it's one o'clock in the morning.''

      ``Are you tired?'' she murmured.

      ``No.''

      ``Nor I – don't go.''

      ``But it's one o'clock.''

      ``Don't go yet.''

      He sank down irresolutely on the rug again. ``I ought to go,'' he murmured.

      ``Are we to remain friends?''

      ``That is for Hélène to say.''

      ``And Hélène will leave it to Homer!''

      ``To whom?'' said Gethryn.

      ``Monsieur Homer,'' said the girl, faintly.

      ``But that was a tragedy.''

      ``But they were friends.''

      ``In a way. Yes, in a way.''

      Gethryn tried to return to a light tone. ``They fell in love, I believe.'' No answer. ``Very well,'' said Gethryn, still trying to joke, ``I will carry you off in a boat, then.''

      ``To Troy – when?''

      ``No, to Meudon, when you are well. Do you like the country?''

      ``I love it,'' she said.

      ``Well, I'll take my easel and my paints along too.''

      She looked at him seriously. ``You are an artist – I heard that from the concierge.''

      ``Yes,'' said Gethryn, ``I think I may claim the title tonight.''

      And then he told her about the Salon. She listened and brightened with sympathy. Then she grew silent.

      ``Do you paint landscapes?''

      ``Figures,'' said the young man, shortly.

      ``From models?''

      ``Of course,'' he answered, still more drily.

      ``Draped,'' she persisted.

      ``No.''

      ``I hate models!'' she cried out, almost fiercely.

      ``They are not a pleasing set, as a rule,'' he admitted. ``But I know some decent ones.''

      She shivered and shook her curly head. ``Some are very pretty, I suppose.''

      ``Some.''

      ``Do you know Sarah Brown?''

      ``Yes, I know Sarah.''

      ``Men go wild about her.''

      ``I never did.''

      Yvonne was out of humor. ``Oh,'' she cried, petulantly, ``you are very cold – you Americans – like ice.''

      ``Because we don't run after Sarah?''

      ``Because you are a nation of business, and – ''

      ``And brains,'' said Gethryn, drily.

      There was an uncomfortable pause. Gethryn looked at the girl. She lay with her face turned from him.

      ``Hélène!'' No answer. ``Yvonne – Mademoiselle!'' No answer. ``It's two o'clock.''

      A slight impatient movement of the head.

      ``Good night.'' Gethryn rose. ``Good night,'' he repeated. He waited for a moment. ``Good night, Yvonne,'' he said, for the third time.

      She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child.

      ``Good night,'' he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. She looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. The golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart.

      ``You will wear it?'' she whispered.

      ``Yes.''

      ``Then – good night.''

      Half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. And all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep.

      Six

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