le Chauvin is responsible to your Uncle Don."

"Don't call him that!" Flamby had cried, with one of her swift changes
of mood. "It sounds damned silly!"

Thereupon Chauvin had laughed until he had had to polish his spectacles,
for Chauvin was a cheery soul and the embodiment of all that Muerger
meant when he spoke of a Bohemian. "Oh! oh!" he had chuckled--"you
little devil! I must tell Hammett." And he had been as good as his word;
but that same day he had bought Flamby a huge box of chocolates which
was a direct and highly immoral encouragement of profanity.

Nevertheless Flamby managed to make the acquaintance of Orlando James,
but she did not tell Chauvin. She detested James, but it had been very
gratifying to be noticed by a man actually in the company of the
dazzling Yvonne Mario. Flamby had profound faith in her ability to take
care of herself and not without sound reason, for she was experienced
and wise beyond her years, and James's pride in his new conquest amused
her vastly because she knew it to be no conquest at all. Only with age
do women learn that the foolish world judges beauty harshly and that the
judgment of the foolish world may not be wholly neglected. Thus, for
human life is a paradox, this knowledge comes when it is no longer of
any use, since every woman is not a Ninon de Lenclos.

Of such-like matters were Flamby's thoughts as she sat squeezed up into
the smallest possible compass upon her settee, arms embracing knees;
and, as was so often the case, they led her back to Paul Mario. It was
wonderful how all paths seemed to lead to Paul Mario. She sighed,
reaching down for the newspaper which had slipped to the floor. As her
fingers touched it, the door-bell rang.

Flamby jumped up impetuously, glancing at the celebrated china clock,
which recorded the hour of ten p.m. She assumed that Mrs. Chumley had
called for what she was wont to describe as "a goodnight chat." Flamby
opened the door, and the light shone out upon Paul Mario.

XI

There are surprises which transcend the surprising, and as the finer
tones of music defeat our ears and pass by us unnoticed so do these
super-dramatic happenings find us unmoved. Flamby was aware of a vague
numbness; she felt like an automaton, but she was quite composed.

"Good evening, Mr. Mario," she said. "How nice of you to call."

The trite precision of her greeting sounded unfamiliar--the speech of a
stranger.

"May I come in, or will the lateness