on with undisturbed inspiration; to
lift never a glance to his window; and to go away without a word, a
look, a sign, to any one, when the least breath or motion would have
brought him instantly into her sacred presence. She was right. She was
not for him. There is a fitness of things, and there was no
fitness--he said--of him for her. And yet she must and would ever be
more to him than any one else. He would glory in going through life
unloved, while his soul lived in and on the phantom companionship of
that vision of delight which she was and should ever be. The midday
bells sounded softly here and there. He would walk.

As I say, he went slowly down the old rue Bourbon. He had no hunger;
he would pass by the Women's Exchange. There was nothing to stop there
for; was not Madame Beausoleil in Terrebonne, and Marguerite the guest
of that chattering woman in silk and laces? But when he reached the
Exchange doors he drifted in as silently and supinely as any drift-log
would float into the new crevasse.

The same cashier was still on duty. She lighted up joyously as he
entered, and, when he had hung his hat near the door, leaned forward
to address him; but with a faint pain in his face, and loathing in his
heart, he passed on and out into the veranda. The place was well
filled, and he had to look about to find a seat. The bare possibility
that _she_ might be there was overpowering. There was a total
suspension of every sort of emotion. He felt, as he took his chair and
essayed to glance casually around, as light and unreal as any one who
ever walked the tight-rope in a dream. The blood leaped in torrents
through his veins, and yet his movements, as he fumbled aimlessly with
his knife, fork, and glass, were slow and languid.

A slender young waitress came, rested her knuckles on the table, and
leaned on them, let her opposite arm hang limply along the sidewise
curve of her form, and bending a smile of angelic affection upon the
young Acadian, said in a confidential undertone:

"The cashier told me to tell you those ladies have come."

Claude rose quickly and stood looking upon the face before him,
speechless. It was to him exactly as if a man in uniform had laid a
hand upon his shoulder and said, "You're my prisoner." Then, still
gazing, and aware of others looking at him, he slowly sank again into
his seat.

"She just told me to tell you," said the damsel. "Yes, sir. Have you
ordered?"

"Humph?" He was still look