ous admiration
from Armand St. Just's expressive eyes.

She swept a handful of delicate cambric and silk from off a chair,
making room for de Batz' portly figure. Then she sat upon the sofa, and
with an inviting gesture and a call from the eyes she bade Armand sit
down next to her. She leaned back against the cushions, and the table
being close by, she stretched out a hand and once more took up the bunch
of narcissi, and while she talked to Armand she held the snow-white
blooms quite close to her face--so close, in fact, that he could not
see her mouth and chin, only her dark eyes shone across at him over the
heads of the blossoms.

"Tell me all about England," she reiterated, settling herself down among
the cushions like a spoilt child who is about to listen to an oft-told
favourite story.

Armand was vexed that de Batz was sitting there. He felt he could have
told this dainty little lady quite a good deal about England if only his
pompous, fat friend would have had the good sense to go away.

As it was, he felt unusually timid and gauche, not quite knowing what to
say, a fact which seemed to amuse Mlle. Lange not a little.

"I am very fond of England," he said lamely; "my sister is married to an
Englishman, and I myself have taken up my permanent residence there."

"Among the society of emigres?" she queried.

Then, as Armand made no reply, de Batz interposed quickly:

"Oh! you need not fear to admit it, my good Armand; Mademoiselle Lange,
has many friends among the emigres--have you not, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, of course," she replied lightly; "I have friends everywhere. Their
political views have nothing to do with me. Artistes, I think, should
have naught to do with politics. You see, citizen St. Just, I never
inquired of you what were your views. Your name and kinship would
proclaim you a partisan of citizen Robespierre, yet I find you in the
company of M. de Batz; and you tell me that you live in England."

"He is no partisan of citizen Robespierre," again interposed de Batz;
"in fact, mademoiselle, I may safely tell you, I think, that my friend
has but one ideal on this earth, whom he has set up in a shrine, and
whom he worships with all the ardour of a Christian for his God."

"How romantic!" she said, and she looked straight at Armand. "Tell me,
monsieur, is your ideal a woman or a man?"

His look answered her, even before he boldly spoke the two words:

"A woman."

She took a deep draught of swe