l attitude of the haughty Briton in hopes of a tip, she opened
her ridiculously tiny gold-linked purse and gave herself up to the
absorbing question as to which of the pieces therein was a shilling.
Having at last decided this, she presented it to the guard with a
dazzling smile. It had been so long since Peggy had had an opportunity
to smile at anything masculine that the smile was unusually bright.

She had already passed through the little door when she suddenly turned
back. The other tourists, noses in Baedekers, were hurrying on before,
the guard was busily counting his sixpences, and she slipped back into
the dim chapel unperceived.

"They'll think I've gone back to those dingy lodgings," she reflected,
as she groped her way between the benches into an even more shadowy
corner--a little recess, with a tiny niche in the wall, that had
probably been the sanctuary of some pious king. She seated herself
comfortably behind the pillar in the corner and gazed pensively at the
stones.

"Tombs and tombs and tombs!" she murmured mournfully, "even in Paris,
instead of Maxim's and the cafes, nothing but tombs! The next time I want
to see where anybody is buried I will just go out to the cemetery instead
of coming across that dreadful ocean. Oh, just to have one adventure
before I go home!" she continued with a long sigh, "a real adventure with
a real man in it--not a horrid, womanish Frenchman or a stolid, conceited
Britisher, but a nice, safe American--like--like--like--my American."

Then the dimple in her right cheek that was probably responsible for the
calling her Peggy, in spite of her many protests for her rightful
dignity of "Margaret," came out suddenly as it always did when she
thought of her American. She had called him that from the time when, in
the midst of the perplexities of the English luggage system, she had
looked up and found him watching her. The cut of his gray suit and his
shoes had told her his nationality at once, and they had looked for a
moment at each other with that peculiar friendliness that compatriots in
a strange land always feel. She had forgotten him until, leaning from a
taxi-cab in the Rue de la Paix, she had met the same eyes, this time so
unrefrainedly joyful in their recognition that she had suddenly blushed.
When, a week later at Calais, as she stood by the rail of the departing
Channel steamer she caught a glimpse of him on the dock, he had seemed
like an old friend, and before she