Although the sound of the closing door was hardly perceptible, it was enough to wake Gethryn.

“Elise!” he called, starting up, “Elise!”

But the girl was beyond earshot.

“And she went away without her money, too; I’ll drop around tomorrow and leave it; she may need it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and staring at the door.

It was dinner time, and past, but he had little appetite.

“I’ll just have something here,” he said to himself, and catching up his hat ran down stairs. In twenty minutes he was back with eggs, butter, bread, a paté, a bottle of wine and a can of sardines. The spirit lamp was lighted and the table deftly spread.

“I’ll have a cup of tea, too,” he thought, shaking the blue tea canister, and then, touching a match to the well-filled grate, soon had the kettle fizzling and spluttering merrily.

The wind had blown up cold from the east and the young man shivered as he closed and fastened the windows. Then he sat down, his chin on his hands, and gazed into the glowing grate. Mrs Gummidge, who had smelled the sardines, came rubbing up against his legs, uttering a soft mew from sheer force of habit. She was not hungry — in fact, Gethryn knew that the concierge, whose duty it was to feed all the creatures, overdid it from pure kindness of heart — at Gethryn’s expense.

“Gummidge, you’re stuffed up to your eyes, aren’t you?” he said.

At the sound of his voice the cat hoisted her tail, and began to march in narrowing circles about her master’s chair, making gentle observations in the cat language.

Gethryn placed a bit of sardine on a fork and held it out, but the little humbug merely sniffed at it daintily, and then rubbed against her master’s hand.

He laughed and tossed the bit of fish into the fire, where it spluttered and blazed until the parrot woke up with a croak of annoyance. Gethryn watched the kettle in silence.

Faces he could never see among the coals, but many a time he had constructed animals and reptiles from the embers, and just now he fancied he could see a resemblance to a shark among the bits of blazing coal.

He watched the kettle dreamily. The fire glowed and flashed and sank, and glowed again. Now he could distinctly see a serpent twisting among the embers. The clock ticked in measured unison with the slow oscillation of the flame serpent. The wind blew hard against the panes and sent a sudden chill creeping to his feet.

Bang! Bang! went the blinds. The hallway was full of strange noises. He thought he heard a step on the threshold; he imagined that his door creaked, but he did not turn around from his study of the fire; it was the wind, of course.

The sudden hiss of the kettle, boiling over, made him jump and seize it. As he turned to set it down, there was a figure standing beside the table. Neither spoke. The kettle burnt his hand and he set it back on the hearth; then he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the fire.

After a while Yvonne broke the silence — speaking very low: “Are you angry?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl, with a sigh.

The silence was too strained to last, and finally Gethryn said, “Won’t you sit down?”

She did so silently.

“You see I’m — I’m about to do a little cooking,” he said, looking at the eggs.

The girl spoke again, still very low.

“Won’t you tell me why you are angry?”

“I’m not,” began Gethryn, but he sat down and glanced moodily at the girl.

“For two weeks you have not been to see me.”

“You are mistaken, I have been — “ he began, but stopped.

“When?”

“Saturday.”

“And I was not at home?”

“And you were at home,” he said grimly. “You had a caller — it was easy to hear his voice, so I did not knock.”

She winced, but said quietly, “Don’t you think that is rude?”

“Yes,” said Gethryn, “I beg pardon.”

Presently she continued: “You and — and he — are the only two men who have been in my room.”

“I’m honored, I’m sure,” he answered, drily.

The girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil.

“I ask your pardon again,” he said; “allow me to relieve you of your waterproof.”

She rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down and looked into the fire in her turn.

“It has been so long — I— I— hoped you would come.”

“Whom were you with in the Luxembourg Gardens?” he suddenly broke out.

She did not misunderstand or evade the question, and Gethryn, watching her face, thought perhaps she had expected it. But she resented his tone.

“I was with a friend,” she said, simply.

He came and sat down opposite her.

“It is not my business,” he said, sulkily; “excuse me.”

She looked at him for some moments in silence.

“It was Mr Pick,” she said at length.

Gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust.

“And that — Jew was in your rooms? That Jew!”

“Yes.” She sat nervously rolling and unrolling her gloves. “Why do you care?” she asked, looking into the fire.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

There was a pause.

“Rex,” she said, very low, “will you listen?”

“Yes, I’ll listen.”

“He is a — a friend of my sister’s. He came from her to — to — ”

“To what!”

“To — borrow a little money. I distrusted him the first time he came — the time you heard him in my room — and I refused him. Saturday he stopped me in the street, and, hoping to avoid a chance of meeting — you, I walked through the park.”

“And you gave him the money — I saw you!”

“I did — all I could spare.”

“Is he — is your sister married?”

“No,” she whispered.

“And why — “ began Gethryn, angrily, “Why does that scoundrel come to beg money — “ He stopped, for the girl was in evident distress.

“Ah! You know why,” she said in a scarce audible voice.

The young man was silent.

“And you will come again?” she asked timidly.

No answer.

She moved toward the door.

“We were such very good friends.”

Still he was silent.

“Is it au revoir?” she whispered, and waited for a moment on the threshold.

“Then it is adieu.”

“Yes,” he said, huskily, “that is better.”

She trembled a little and leaned against the doorway.

“Adieu, mon ami — “ She tried to speak, but her voice broke and ended in a sob.

Then, all at once, and neither knew just how it was, she was lying in his arms, sobbing passionately.

“Rex,” said Yvonne, half an hour later, as she stood before the mirror arranging her disordered curls, “are you not the least little bit ashamed of yourself?”

The answer appeared to be satisfactory, but the curly head was in a more hopeless state of disorder than before, and at last the girl gave a little sigh and exclaimed, “There! I’m all rumpled, but its your fault. Will you oblige me by regarding my hair?”

“Better let it alone; I’ll only rumple it some more!” he cried, ominously.

“You mustn’t! I forbid you!”

“But I want to!”

“Not now, then — ”

“Yes — immediately!”

“Rex — you mustn’t. O, Rex — I— I— ”

“What?” he laughed, holding her by her slender wrists.

She flushed scarlet and struggled to break away.

“Only one.”

“No.”

“One.”

“None.”

“Shall I let you go?”

“Yes,” she sai............