m the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenelle
where Mrs. Denton had arranged that she should stay. She found a note
from him awaiting her when she arrived there. He thought she would like
to be quiet after her journey. He would call round in the morning. He
had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They had
been her mother's favourite flower. "Monsieur Folk, the great artist,"
had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame
informed her.

It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and was
built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree. She
breakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appeared
before her, smiling and with his hat in his hand. He excused himself for
intruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him that
her first morning might be his only chance. He evidently considered her
remembrance of him a feather in his cap.

"We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are,"
he explained. "We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile."

"You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years," Joan
reminded him. "It makes us about the same age. I shall treat you as
just a young man."

He laughed. "Don't be surprised," he said, "if I make a mistake
occasionally and call you Lena."

Joan had no appointment till the afternoon. They drove out to St.
Germain, and had _dejeuner_ at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau;
and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace.

"What was my mother doing in Paris?" asked Joan,

"She was studying for the stage," he answered. "Paris was the only
school in those days. I was at Julien's studio. We acted together for
some charity. I had always been fond of it. An American manager who was
present offered us both an engagement, and I thought it would be a change
and that I could combine the two arts."

"And it was here that you proposed to her," said Joan.

"Just by that tree that leans forward," he answered, pointing with his
cane a little way ahead. "I thought that in America I'd get another
chance. I might have if your father hadn't come along. I wonder if he
remembers me."

"Did you ever see her again, after her marriage?" asked Joan.

"No," he answered. "We used to write to one another until she gave it
up. She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort of
thing to confide in and ask advice of--wh