she had the genius for making him. "Come,
then, in with me and help me choose a _doll_."

It was not the first purchase during the course of a long friendship
which Bulstrode had made with this charming woman by his side, but for
some reason he enjoyed it more than former errands. The bachelor and
the childless woman were hard to please and their choice consumed an
unconscionable time. As they lingered, the amiable shopman pressed
various toys on monsieur and madame "_pour les enfants_," and the lady,
finally depositing her friend with his parcels at the door of his
hotel, realized as she drove away that she knew nothing of the child
for whom the purchases had been made. On her way up the Champs Elysees
she smiled softly. "It's what you _share_," she mused, "what you give
of _yourself--with_ yourself--_that's_ charity! Jimmy gives himself.
I wonder who his new love is?"

Bulstrode, in order to share what should be his "new love's" ecstasy at
first sight of the miraculous toy, sent for Simone. The Rue de Rivoli
doll, on a small chair designed for diminutive ladies of the eighteenth
century or for the king's dwarfs, held out stiff but cordial arms and
was naturally, to a child, the first and sole object of the
drawing-room.

"_Monsieur!_"

"For you, Simone."

"_Monsieur!_"

She said nothing else as she clasped her hands, and the color rushed
into her face, but she felt the doll, touched reverently its feet,
hair, dress, incontinently forgot Bulstrode, and quite suddenly,
passionately, caught the image of life to her heart. Just over its
blonde head, for it was nearly as large as herself, she met the
gentleman's eyes.

"It's my child! I've prayed for it always, always! I've never had a
doll, a _bebe_, m'sieu."

The tea-table with cakes and chocolate called them all too soon and, as
Prosper served, the fountains sang, the heat stole through the garden
and called up agreeable odors of sod and roses, the late afternoon sky
spread its expanse over the terrace of the hotel, where, perfectly
happy both of them, animated by as gentle and harmless pleasure as any
two in Paris that day, the child of the people and an American
gentleman chatted over their tea.

Bulstrode, being an original, erratic, and reckless giver of alms,
quite by this time knew that, more than often, for him to give was, if
not to regret, to have at least misgivings whether in the hands of some
colder, less poetic person his money would