ng time of voices below, and turned upon his
elbows to look. The ivy had clambered upon and partly covered the iron
grille of the little balcony, and he could observe without being seen.
Young Arthur Benham and Coira O'Hara had come out of the door of the
house, and they stood upon the raised and paved terrace which ran the
width of the facade, and seemed to hesitate as to the direction they
should take. Ste. Marie heard the girl say:

"It's cooler here in the shade of the house," and after a moment the two
came along the shady terrace whose outer margin was set at intervals
with stained and discolored marble nymphs upon pedestals, and between
the nymphs with moss-grown stone benches. They halted before a bench
upon which, earlier in the day, a rug had been spread out to dry in the
sun and had been forgotten, and after a moment's further hesitation they
sat down upon it. Their faces were turned toward the house, and every
word that they spoke mounted in that still air clear and distinct to the
ears of the man above.

Ste. Marie wriggled back into the room and sat up to consider. The
thought of deliberately listening to a conversation not meant for him
sent a hot flush to his cheeks. He told himself that it could not be
done, and that there was an end to the matter. Whatever might hang upon
it, it could not be asked of him that he should stoop to dishonor. But
at that the heavy and grave responsibility, which really did hang upon
him and upon his actions, came before his mind's eye and loomed there
mountainous. The fate of this foolish boy who was set round with thieves
and adventurers--even though his eyes were open and he knew where he
stood--that came to Ste. Marie and confronted him; and the picture of a
bitter old man who was dying of grief came to him; and a mother's face;
and _hers_. There could be no dishonor in the face of all this, only a
duty very clear and plain. He crept back to his place, his arms folded
beneath him as he lay, his eyes at the thin screen of ivy which cloaked
the balcony grille.

Young Arthur Benham appeared to be giving tongue to a rather sharp
attack of homesickness. It may be that long confinement within the walls
of La Lierre was beginning to try him somewhat.

"Mind you," he declared, as Ste. Marie's ears came once more within
range--"mind you, I'm not saying that Paris hasn't got its points. It
has. Oh yes! And so has London, and so has Ostend, and so has Monte
Carlo. Verree much s