nt later the two men left the place together--and
neither returned.

"What are you staring at?" Ella demanded curiously.

Macheson looked away from the door and smiled quietly.

"I was wondering," he answered, "what it was like--outside?"

"Would you like to go?" she whispered eagerly in his ear. "I'm ready.
The others could come on afterwards."

"What, without supper?" he exclaimed. "My dear girl, I'm starving.
Besides--I didn't mean that altogether."

"It's rather hard to know what you do mean," she remarked with a sigh.
"Say, I don't understand you a little bit!"

"How should you," he answered, "when I'm in the same fix myself?"

"I wish you were like other boys," she remarked. "You're so difficult!"

He looked at her--without the mask--for a moment, and she drew back,
wondering. For his eyes were very weary, and they spoke to her of things
which she did not understand.

"Don't try," he said. "It wouldn't be any good."

Mademoiselle sank into her chair opposite to them, breathless and hot.
She accepted a glass of wine and begged for a cigarette. She whispered
in Macheson's ear that the big man was a forger, an affair of the year
before last. He was safe away from Paris, but the price of his liberty
was more than he could pay. The man there to the left with the lady in
pink, no! not the Vicomte, the one beyond, he was tried for murder a
month ago. There was a witness missing--the case fell through,
but--mademoiselle shook her shoulders significantly. The lady with fair
hair and dark eyes, Macheson asked, was she English? But certainly,
mademoiselle assured him. She was the divorced wife of an English
nobleman. "To-night she is alone," mademoiselle added, "but it is not
often! Ah, monsieur!"

Mademoiselle shook her finger across the table. Macheson's too curious
glance had provoked a smile of invitation from the lady!

"I really think you might remember that I am here," Ella remarked. "It
is very interesting to hear you talk French, but I get tired of it!"

Mademoiselle took the hint and flitted away. Supper arrived and created
a diversion. Nevertheless, Macheson alone of the little party seemed to
have absorbed successfully the spirit of the place. He was almost
recklessly gay. He drank toasts right and left. He was the centre from
which the hilarity of the room seemed to radiate. Davenant was half
muddled with wine, and sleepy. He sat with his arm about Rosine, who
looked more often towards Macheson.