tated to speak, doubting her
command of English, had ceased to joy in her beauty, and had wondered if
she appeared to Paul as a weird little gnome. Now, she was resolved
never to see him again--to hide away from him, to forget him--or to try.

"You are a true artist, Flamby," he said; "a creature of moods. Perhaps
to-night the fairy gates have opened for you as they have opened for me.
Titania has summoned you out into the woods, and you are half afraid.
But the artist lives very near to Nature, and has nothing to fear from
her. Surely you love these nights of the early moon?"

And as he spoke Flamby's resolution became as naught, and she knew that
to hear him and to share his dreams was worth any sacrifice of
self-esteem. Never since her father's death had she had a confidant to
whom she might speak of her imaginings, from whom she might hope for
sympathy and understanding. She forgot her shyness, forgot her new
shoes.

"I have always loved the moon," she confessed. "Perhaps I thought of her
as Isis once long ago."

Now it was Paul who hesitated and wondered, his respect for Flamby and
for the complex personality who had tutored her growing apace.

"But in London they must hate the moon," she added, and the tone
betokened one of her swift changes of mood.

"Yes," said Paul, raising his eyes, "the old goddess of the Nile seems
to have transferred her allegiance to the Rhine." He glanced at the
luminous disc of his watch. "I fear I am late. I shall call upon your
mother to-morrow, if I may, and see if we can arrange something definite
about your studies."

"Oh!" cried Flamby--"what time will you come?"

"May I come in the morning?"

"Of course."

"In the morning, then, about eleven o'clock. I must hurry, or Mr.
Thessaly will be waiting. What do you think of your new and wonderful
neighbour?"

"I have heard that he is a clever man and very rich; but I have never
seen him."

"Never seen him? And Babylon Hall is only a few hundred yards away."

"I know. But I have never seen Mr. Thessaly."

"How very queer," said Paul. "Well, good night, Flamby."

He took off his soft grey hat and extended his hand. All Flamby's
shyness descended upon her like the golden shower on Danae, and barely
touching the outstretched hand she whispered, "Good night, Mr. Mario,"
turned and very resolutely walked away, never once looking back.

At the gate of the cottage she began to limp, and upon the instant of
entering the sitti