She
wanted to be alone, leaning to watch this ever-shifting torrent of
humanity. This balcony belonged to her room. She had revenged herself
for the upper berth by securing a room much better placed than
Henriette's. But if Henriette intended to live in it--

Suddenly she drew back rather sharply. She had just seen, in the midst
of the crowd, the tall figure of Claude Heath moving toward the cafe
immediately opposite to her balcony.

"Is my tea never coming?" she said. "I think I shall get into a tea-gown
and lie down a little before dinner."

Madame Sennier followed her into the room.

"Till dinner, then," she said. "We are sure to see them, I suppose?"

"Of course. Leave the libretto entirely to me. He would be certain to
suspect any move on your part."

Madame Sennier's white face looked very hard as she nodded and left the
room. She met the waiter bringing Mrs. Shiffney's tea at the door.

When she and the waiter were both gone Mrs. Shiffney drank her tea on
the balcony, sitting largely on a cane chair. She felt agreeably
excited. Claude Heath had gone into the cafe on the other side of the
road, and was now sitting alone at a little table on the terrace which
projects into the Place beneath the Hotel de Paris. Mrs. Shiffney saw a
waiter take his order and bring him coffee, while a little Arab,
kneeling, set to work on his boots.

All day long Claude and Gillier had remained invisible. Mrs. Shiffney,
Henriette, and Max Elliot, after visiting the native quarters in the
morning, had expected to see the two men at lunch, but they had not
appeared. Now the two women had just returned from a drive round the
city and to the suspension bridge which spans the terror of the Gorge.
And here was Claude Heath just opposite to Mrs. Shiffney, no doubt
serenely unconscious of her presence in Constantine! As Mrs. Shiffney
sipped her tea and looked down at him she thought again, "What a setting
for melodrama!"

She was a very civilized child of her age, and believed that she had a
horror of melodrama, looking upon it as a degraded form of art, or
artlessness, which pleased people whom she occasionally saw but would
never know. But this evening some part of her almost desired it, not as
a spectacle, but as something in which she could take an active part. In
this town she felt adventurous. It was difficult to look at this crowd
without thinking of violent lives and deeds of violence. It was
difficult to look at Claude Hea