ho had, half
an hour before, contemplated a rout at Maxim's. His glance described a
half-circle. There was Durand's; but Durand's on opera nights entertained
many Americans, and he did not care to meet any of his compatriots
to-night. So he turned down the Rue Royale, on the opposite side, and went
into the Taverne Royale, where the patrons were not over particular in
regard to the laws of fashion, and where certain ladies with light
histories sought further adventures to add to their heptamerons. Now,
Courtlandt thought neither of the one nor of the other. He desired
isolation, safety from intrusion; and here, did he so signify, he could
find it. Women gazed up at him and smiled, with interest as much as with
invitation. He was brown from long exposure to the wind and the sun, that
golden brown which is the gift of the sun-glitter on rocking seas. A
traveler is generally indicated by this artistry of the sun, and once
noted instantly creates a speculative interest. Even his light brown hair
had faded at the temples, and straw-colored was the slender mustache, the
ends of which had a cavalier twist. He ignored the lips which smiled and
the eyes which invited, and nothing more was necessary. One is not
importuned at the Taverne Royale. He sat down at a vacant table and
ordered a pint of champagne, drinking hastily rather than thirstily.

Would Monsieur like anything to eat?

No, the wine was sufficient.

Courtlandt poured out a second glass slowly. The wine bubbled up to the
brim and overflowed. He had been looking at the glass with unseeing eyes.
He set the bottle down impatiently. Fool! To have gone to Burma, simply to
stand in the golden temple once more, in vain, to recall that other time:
the starving kitten held tenderly in a woman's arms, his own scurry among
the booths to find the milk so peremptorily ordered, and the smile of
thanks that had been his reward! He had run away when he should have hung
on. He should have fought every inch of the way....

"Monsieur is lonely?"

A pretty young woman sat down before him in the vacant chair.

CHAPTER II

THERE IS A WOMAN?

Anger, curiosity, interest; these sensations blanketed one another
quickly, leaving only interest, which was Courtlandt's normal state of
mind when he saw a pretty woman. It did not require very keen scrutiny on
his part to arrive swiftly at the conclusion that this one was not quite
in the picture. Her cheeks were not red with that r