to trophy; from the sarcophagus to the
encircling faces, from one window to another, and again to the porphyry
beneath. And Fitzgerald's gaze wandered, too. For the girl's face was
of that mold which invariably draws first the eye of a man, then his
intellect, then his heart, and sometimes all three at once. The face
was as lovely as a rose of Taormina. Dark brown were her eyes, dark
brown was her hair. She was tall and lithe, too, with the subtle hint
of the woman. There were good taste and sense in her garments. A
bunch of Parma violets was pinned against her breast.

"A well-bred girl," was the grateful spectator's silent comment. "No
new money there. I wish they'd send more of them over here. But it
appears that, with few exceptions, only freaks can afford to travel."

Between Fitzgerald and the girl was a veteran. He had turned eighty if
a day. His face was powder-blown, an empty sleeve, was folded across
his breast, and the medal of the Legion of Honor fell over the Sleeve.
As the girl and her elderly escort, presumably her father, turned about
to leave, she unpinned the flowers and offered them impulsively to the
aged hero.

"Take these, _mon brave_," she said lightly; "you have fought for
France."

The old man was confused and his faded eyes filled. "For me,
mademoiselle?"

"Surely!"

"Thanks, mademoiselle, thanks! I saw _him_ when they brought him back
from St. Helena, and the Old Guard waded out into the Seine. Those
were days. Thanks, mademoiselle; an old soldier salutes you!" And the
time-bent, withered form grew tall.

Fitzgerald cleared his throat, for just then something hard had formed
there. Why, God bless her! She was the kind of girl who became the
mother of soldiers.

With her departure his present interest here began to wane. He
wondered who she might be and what part of his native land she adorned
when not gracing European capitals. Well, this was no time for
mooning. He had arrived from London the day proceeding, and was
leaving for Corfu on the morrow, and perforce he must crowd many things
into this short grace of time. He was only moderately fond of Paris as
a city; the cafes and restaurants and theaters amused him, to be sure;
but he was always hunting for romance here and never finding it. The
Paris of his Dumas and Leloir no longer existed. In one way or
another, the Louvre did not carry him back to the beloved days; he
could not rouse his fancy to such he