specially _piquante_. But Paul would have none of her,
and she tripped away disappointed of her coveted _divertissement_.

Paul was very jealous and exacting and even domineering this morning,
and would permit no intrusion. He would take care of madame, he had
informed the girl, and when she had taken herself away, he repeated it
emphatically. Opal was his little girl, he said, and he was going to pet
and coddle her himself. _Femme de chambre_ indeed! Wasn't he worth a
dozen of the impertinent French minxes! Wanted to coquette with him,
most likely--thought he might be ready to yawn over madame's charms! She
could keep her pretty ankles out of his sight--he wasn't interested in
them!

How Paul thrilled at the touch of everything Opal wore! Soft delicious
things they were, and he handled them with an awkward reverence that
brought tears to her eyes. They spoke a strange, shy language of their
own--these little, filmy bits of fine linen.

Oh, but it was good, thought Opal, to be taken care of like this!--to be
on these familiar terms with the Boy she loved--to give him the right to
love her and do these little things, so sacred in a woman's life. And to
Paul it meant more than even she guessed. It was such a new world to
him. He felt that he was treading on holy ground, and, for the moment,
was half-afraid.

And thus began their one day--the one day that was to know no yesterday,
and no tomorrow!

They found it hard to remember that part of it at all times. He would
grow reminiscent for an instant, and begin, "Do you remember--" and she
would catch him up quickly with a whispered, "No yesterday, Paul!" And
again, it would be his turn, for a troubled look would cloud the joy of
her eyes, and she would start to say, "What shall I do--" or "When I go
to Paris--" and Paul would snatch her to his heart and remind her that
there was "No tomorrow!"

All the forenoon she lay in his arms, crying out with little
inarticulate gurgles of joy under his caresses, lavishing a whole
lifetime's concentrated emotion upon him in a ferocity of passion that
seemed quenchless.

And Paul was in the seventh heaven--mad with love! He was learning that
there were tones in that glorious voice that he had never heard before,
depths in those eyes that he had never fathomed--and those tones, those
depths, were all for him, for him alone--aye, had been waiting there
through all eternity for his awakening touch.

"Opal," he said, earnestly, "p