not have accomplished more
good. In the case of Simone he had, as usual, happily gone on with
abandon, relegating any remorse to a future which he hoped would never
arrive.

But the middle of July did come and with it came poor Jimmy's exquisite
temptation. A telephone helped it dreadfully. There was something so
wonderful in the fact that in a couple of hours he could, if he would,
let himself reach the side of the lovely voice which called to him over
the wires. And being nothing but a human man, he threw all his good
resolves to the wind, and went down and stayed three days at
Fontainebleau.

Out under the sky, where the elastic earth sprang softly beneath her
feet and the embowered forests were sifted through with gold, Mary
Falconer finally asked him, "And your doll, Jimmy? Have you broken her
yet?" Bulstrode felt a guilty twinge, for he had not once thought of
the little girl, nor did Mrs. Falconer's mention of her bring the
subject near enough for Bulstrode to tell her the pretty story. He had
other things to say, and many things not to say, and this, as it always
did when he was with his lady, kept him very absorbed and occupied. On
this occasion he forgot all about little Simone.

The night of his return Paris was _en fete_ and in no sense impatient
to reach his lonely house--for it seemed to him this night the
loneliest house in the world--he walked without haste up town along the
quays.

It was hard to forget that not fifty miles away he had left the cool
forests, their tempting roads, their alluring alleys. He had forgotten
that it was the annual celebration and that at this late hour the
_fete_ would be in full swing, and as he strolled meditating along the
Seine the spirit of the gay populace--good-humor, reckless pleasure,
and the _joie de vivre_--poured itself out around him like cordial,
like a generous gift from an over-charged horn of cheer. In his gray
clothes, modish panama, a little white rose plucked by a dear hand from
the trellis at Fontainebleau still in his buttonhole, Bulstrode
scarcely remarked the crowds or heard the music as he passed outdoor
dancing stands and was jostled by a dancing throng.

His own street, as he approached it, welcomed him with a strong odor of
onions and fried potatoes; it had apparently turned itself out of doors
and all of the houses seemed to have emptied themselves into the narrow
alley. A hurdy-gurdy playing before the _hotel meuble_ tinkled a