y after the performance by the manager,
to which representatives of the press--artful Barnes!--had been
invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one
of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his
breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to
Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately
no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the
impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes;
the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate--only the bare
facts have descended to the chronicler.

So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of
flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading
floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky
hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by
Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the
almost superhuman pride of noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by
Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of
a French song:

"Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames;
Adieu les filles et les femmes--"

Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier's thoughts reverted to
the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again
and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who
played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself,
seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her
auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces
of men who had well-nigh drained life's novelties; the artificially
vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety!
Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as
though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an
ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there,
looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of
admiration and friendliness.

"Don't you like her?" a voice next to him had asked.

Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.

"Yes," he had replied.

Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the
voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had
surged and flowed--as they were surging and flowing now.

"Is he not handsome, Constance's new admirer?" whispered Susan. "