h her head high, as
she did when anything annoyed her; and Paul and his step-father stood
alone in the illuminated ball-room.

Mr. Moffatt smiled good-naturedly at the little boy and then turned back
to the contemplation of the hangings.

"I guess you know where those come from, don't you?" he asked in a tone
of satisfaction.

"Oh, yes," Paul answered eagerly, with a hope he dared not utter that,
since the tapestries were there, his French father might be coming too.

"You're a smart boy to remember them. I don't suppose you ever thought
you'd see them here?"

"I don't know," said Paul, embarrassed.

"Well, I guess you wouldn't have if their owner hadn't been in a pretty
tight place. It was like drawing teeth for him to let them go."

Paul flushed up, and again the iron grasp was on his heart. He hadn't,
hitherto, actually disliked Mr. Moffatt, who was always in a good
humour, and seemed less busy and absent-minded than his mother; but at
that instant he felt a rage of hate for him. He turned away and burst
into tears.

"Why, hullo, old chap--why, what's up?" Mr. Moffatt was on his knees
beside the boy, and the arms embracing him were firm and friendly. But
Paul, for the life of him, couldn't answer: he could only sob and sob as
the great surges of loneliness broke over him.

"Is it because your mother hadn't time for you? Well, she's like that,
you know; and you and I have got to lump it," Mr. Moffatt continued,
getting to his feet. He stood looking down at the boy with a queer
smile. "If we two chaps stick together it won't be so bad--we can keep
each other warm, don't you see? I like you first rate, you know; when
you're big enough I mean to put you in my business. And it looks as if
one of these days you'd be the richest boy in America...."

The lamps were lit, the vases full of flowers, the foot-men assembled
on the landing and in the vestibule below, when Undine descended to the
drawing-room. As she passed the ballroom door she glanced in approvingly
at the tapestries. They really looked better than she had been willing
to admit: they made her ballroom the handsomest in Paris. But something
had put her out on the way up from Deauville, and the simplest way of
easing her nerves had been to affect indifference to the tapestries. Now
she had quite recovered her good humour, and as she glanced down the
list of guests she was awaiting she said to herself, with a sigh of
satisfaction, that she was glad she h