What
can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn't he?"

"I don't know," answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.

Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself!
Reaching for his glass, he drank quickly.

"Don't you ever feel the effects of wine?" asked the young woman.

His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!

"I believe you are so--so strong you don't even notice it," added
Susan, with conviction. "But you don't have half as good a time!"

"Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way," he answered.

"What is your way?" she asked quickly. "You don't appear to be wildly
hilarious in your pleasures." And Susan's bright eyes rested on him
curiously. "But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don't
you think it would be a good match?" she continued with enthusiasm.
"Alas, my titled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men
are deceivers ever! When they _do_ reach the Songs of Solomon, they
pass on to Exodus!"

"And leave the fair ones to Lamentations," said Straws, who had caught
her last remarks.

"Or Revelations!" added Phazma.

At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way,
until a remark from the count at her right, and, "As I was saying, my
dear," from the old lady at her left, engrossed the young girl's
attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy--the grim
guardian of human pleasure--the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a
circle, symbolical of eternity--finally, Time reminded Barnes that the
hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these
festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests
departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the
occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper
and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the
soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage
folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat
and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.

"As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth
in your presence, Mademoiselle," sighed the count. And then raising
her hand to his lips, "_Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous
adore!_" he whispered.

She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed
himself out, followed by the manager.

Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the
cr