eady that his dream could have but one awakening. She was already
plighted to another, a happier man, but even if she were free, Crystal
would never have bestowed a thought upon the stranger--the commonplace
tradesman, whose only merit in her sight lay in his friendship with
another gallant English gentleman.

And knowing this--when he saw her after that, day after day, hour after
hour--poor Bobby Clyffurde grew reconciled to the knowledge that the
gates of his Paradise would for ever be locked against him: he grew
contented just to peep through those gates; and the Angel who was on
guard there, holding the flaming sword of caste prejudice against him,
would relent at times and allow him to linger on the threshold and to
gaze into a semblance of happiness.

Those thoughts, those dreams, those longings, he had been able to
endure; to-day reality had suddenly become more insistent and more
stern: the Angel's flaming sword would sear his soul after this, if he
lingered any longer by the enchanted gates: and thus had the semblance
of happiness yielded at last to dull regret.

He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

IV

The sound of the opening and shutting of a door, the soft frou-frou of a
woman's skirt roused him from his gloomy reverie, and caused him to jump
to his feet.

Mlle. Crystal was coming across the long reception room, walking with a
slow and weary step toward the hearth. She was obviously not yet aware
of Clyffurde's presence, and he had full leisure to watch her as she
approached, to note the pallor of her cheeks and lips and that pathetic
look of childlike self-pity and almost of appeal which veiled the
brilliance of her deep blue eyes.

A moment later she saw him and came more quickly across the room, with
hand extended, and an air of gracious condescension in her whole
attitude.

"Ah! M. Clyffurde," she said in perfect English, "I did not know you
were here . . . and all alone. My father," she added, "is occupied with
serious matters downstairs, else he would have been here to receive
you."

"I know, Mademoiselle," he said after he had kissed the tips of three
cold little fingers which had been held out to him. "My friend de
Marmont is with him just now: he desired to speak with M. le Comte in
private . . . on a matter which closely concerns his happiness."

"Ah! then you knew?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I knew," he replied.

She had settled herself down in a