d with comical solemnity in his voice he
added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You
have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true
sister."

Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such
things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of
the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for
mysteries--Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries.
Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the
baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her
in any way.

One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight,
which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene
amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls,
and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk.
The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool.
On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish
twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her
profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of
fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a
priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were
drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles
wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of
satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the
baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her--to
meet her. He simply pursued her--found her frequently in shops
which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did
not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his
usual sincerity:

"I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!"

This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor
when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation,
began to tell her of his great project of going to America and
settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was
roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new
scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his
imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene.

"One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action,
otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does
not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy
of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a
famous poet and artist, but