man,
in love, would not have made so tame a surrender. Perhaps he had not
surrendered; perhaps neither of them had.

And yet, he sought the Calabrian. Here was another blind alley out of
which she had to retrace her steps. Bother! That Puck of Shakespeare was
right: What fools these mortals be! She was very glad that she possessed a
true sense of humor, spiced with harmless audacity. What a dreary world it
must be to those who did not know how and when to laugh! They talked of
the daring of the American woman: who but a Frenchwoman would have dared
what she had this night? The taxicab! She laughed. And this man was wax in
the hands of any pretty woman who came along! So rumor had it. But she
knew that rumor was only the attenuated ghost of Ananias, doomed forever
to remain on earth for the propagation of inaccurate whispers. Wax! Why,
she would have trusted herself in any situation with a man with those eyes
and that angle of jaw. It was all very mystifying. "Follow him; see where
he goes." The frank discussion, then, and the calm dismissal were but a
woman's dissimulation. And he had gone to Flora Desimone's.

The carriage stopped before a handsome apartment-house in the Avenue de
Wagram. The unknown got out, gave the driver his fare, and rang the
concierge's bell. The sleepy guardian opened the door, touched his
gold-braided cap in recognition, and led the way to the small electric
lift. The young woman entered and familiarly pushed the button. The
apartment in which she lived was on the second floor; and there was luxury
everywhere, but luxury subdued and charmed by taste. There were fine old
Persian rugs on the floors, exquisite oils and water-colors on the walls;
and rare Japanese silk tapestries hung between the doors. In one corner of
the living-room was a bronze jar filled with artificial cherry blossoms;
in another corner near the door, hung a flat bell-shaped piece of brass--a
Burmese gong. There were many photographs ranged along the mantel-top;
celebrities, musical, artistic and literary, each accompanied by a liberal
expanse of autographic ink.

She threw aside her hat and wraps with that manner of inconsequence which
distinguishes the artistic temperament from the thrifty one, and passed on
into the cozy dining-room. The maid had arranged some sandwiches and a
bottle of light wine. She ate and drank, while intermittent smiles played
across her merry face. Having satisfied her hunger, she opened her purse