for the journey, he
protested. "Throw all these things away," he urged. "Wear
one of the new dresses and hats."

"But they're not exactly suitable for traveling."

"People'll think you lost your baggage. I don't want ever to
see you again looking any way except as you ought to look."

"No, I must take care of those clothes," said she firmly.
"It'll be weeks before I can get anything in Paris, and I must
keep up a good front."

He continued to argue with her until it occurred to him that
as his own clothes were not what they should be, he and she
would look much better matched if she dressed as she wished.
He had not been so much in jest as he thought when he said to
her that they would have to get acquainted all over again.
Those new clothes of hers brought out startlingly--so clearly
that even his vanity was made uneasy--the subtle yet profound
difference of class between them. He had always felt this
difference, and in the old days it had given him many a savage
impulse to degrade her, to put her beneath him as a punishment
for his feeling that she was above him. Now he had his
ambition too close at heart to wish to rob her of her chief
distinction; he was disturbed about it, though, and looked
forward to Paris with uneasiness.

"You must help me get my things," said he.

"I'd be glad to," said she. "And you must be frank with me,
and tell me where I fall short of the best of the women we see."

He laughed. The idea that he could help her seemed fantastic.
He could not understand it--how this girl who had been brought
up in a jay town away out West, who had never had what might
be called a real chance to get in the know in New York, could
so quickly pass him who had been born and bred in New York,
had spent the last ten years in cultivating style and all the
other luxurious tastes. He did not like to linger on this
puzzle; the more he worked at it, the farther away from him
Susan seemed to get. Yet the puzzle would not let him drop it.

They came in at the Gare de Lyon in the middle of a beautiful
October afternoon. Usually, from late September or earlier
until May or later, Paris has about the vilest climate that
curses a civilized city. It is one of the bitterest ironies
of fate that a people so passionately fond of the sun, of the
outdoors, should be doomed for two-thirds of the year to live
under leaden, icily leaking skies with rarely a ray of real
sunshine. And nothing so well illustrate