he Protestant cemetery. Four months had gone by, and not a
word from my friend. Alone as I was, my troubles drove me nearly
frantic. I returned to Paris. That I was so sad and changed seemed
naturally due to Helen's death: nobody suspected that I was the victim
of a keener sorrow. None of his friends had received news of him. I was
too proud to show that my interest in him had been of more than ordinary
meaning. Nobody knew of my love for him but Helen, and the secret was
buried in her grave.

"I tarried a month or two in Paris, hoping against hope for news of him,
without even the consolation of addressing him letters, as I did not
know where one would reach him. To know he was dead would have been a
relief: to think he had abandoned me, that he had been false, was
insupportable. It was the most probable solution of the mystery, but I
have never believed it, and I love him as deeply to-day as ever. I have
schooled myself to cheerfulness and gayety, but having known him spoiled
me for loving again. Here is his portrait," drawing a case from a
drawer: "I wish you to see how handsome and good and noble a man may
look to be, and yet--"

She paused, and I added, "Be a villain."

"So you see," she smiled, "how apropos my advice to you is: have nothing
to do with foreigners."

I returned her the portrait without comment, kissed her good-night, and
next day sailed out to sea, with Aunt Edith waving her handkerchief
after me like a flag of warning. We lived in the country, six hours'
ride from New York, and my oldest brother and Aunt Edith had followed me
to the "water's edge," as she playfully expressed it. At London I was to
join Cecilia Dayton, a handsome widow of forty-five, an old friend of
ours, who was to act the part of "chaperone." We called her "St.
Cecilia," although she was anything but saintly.

Late in the following winter we left Paris and went to Nice, where "the
romance of a serviette" began; and I trust the reader will not question
my truthfulness when I observe that what I am writing is, without
exaggeration, strictly true.

St. Cecilia, from nervousness brought on by drinking strong tea (as I
firmly believe), kept a small night-lamp burning in her room at night,
so she should not be afraid to sleep. For this purpose she used tiny
tapers, which float on the top of oil poured in a tumbler half full of
water. We breakfasted in our own rooms, and the breakfast napkins of the
Grand Hotel, where we were sto