th and chastity and
loveliness. In Arthur's eyes Margaret had all the exquisite grace of the
statue, and the same unconscious composure; and in her also breathed the
spring odours of ineffable purity. Her features were chiselled with
the clear and divine perfection of this Greek girl's; her ears were as
delicate and as finely wrought. The colour of her skin was so tender that
it reminded you vaguely of all beautiful soft things, the radiance of
sunset and the darkness of the night, the heart of roses and the depth of
running water. The goddess's hand was raised to her right shoulder, and
Margaret's hand was as small, as dainty, and as white.

'Don't be so foolish,' said she, as Arthur looked silently at the statue.

He turned his eyes slowly, and they rested upon her. She saw that they
were veiled with tears.

'What on earth's the matter?'

'I wish you weren't so beautiful,' he answered, awkwardly, as though he
could scarcely bring himself to say such foolish things. 'I'm so afraid
that something will happen to prevent us from being happy. It seems too
much to expect that I should enjoy such extraordinarily good luck.'

She had the imagination to see that it meant much for the practical man
so to express himself. Love of her drew him out of his character, and,
though he could not resist, he resented the effect it had on him. She
found nothing to reply, but she took his hand.

'Everything has gone pretty well with me so far,' he said, speaking
almost to himself. 'Whenever I've really wanted anything, I've managed to
get it. I don't see why things should go against me now.'

He was trying to reassure himself against an instinctive suspicion of the
malice of circumstances. But he shook himself and straightened his back.

'It's stupid to be so morbid as that,' he muttered.

Margaret laughed. They walked out of the gallery and turned to the quay.
By crossing the bridge and following the river, they must come eventually
to Dr. Porhoet's house.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Susie wandered down the Boulevard Saint Michel, alert with the
Sunday crowd, to that part of Paris which was dearest to her heart. L'Ile
Saint Louis to her mind offered a synthesis of the French spirit, and it
pleased her far more than the garish boulevards in which the English as a
rule seek for the country's fascination. Its position on an island in
the Seine gave it a compact charm. The narrow streets, with their array