ly as daggers and as capable of mischief.

"Adieu, Citizen La Boulaye," she murmured mockingly.

"Au revoir, Citoyenne Deshaix," he replied urbanely.

"Ough!" she gasped, and with that sudden exclamation of pent-up wrath,
she whisked about and went rustling to the door.

"Citoyenne," he called after her, "you are forgetting your flowers."

She halted, and seemed for a second to hesitate, looking at him oddly.
Then she came back to the table and took up her roses. Again she looked
at him, and let the bouquet fall back among the papers.

"I brought them for you, Caron," she said, "and I'll leave them with
you. We can at least be friends, can we not?"

"Friends? But were we ever aught else?" he asked.

"Alas! no," she said to herself, whilst aloud she murmured: "I thought
that you would like them. Your room has such a gloomy, sombre air, and
a few roses seem to diffuse some of the sunshine on which they have been
nurtured."

"You are too good, Cecile" he answered, and, for all his coldness, he
was touched a little by this thoughtfulness.

She looked up at the altered tone, and the expression of her face seemed
to soften. But before she could make answer there was a rap at the door.
It opened, and Brutus stood in the doorway.

"Citizen," he announced, in his sour tones, "there is another woman
below asking to see you."

La Boulaye started, as again his thoughts flew to Suzanne, and a dull
flush crept into his pale cheeks and mounted to his brow. Cecile's eyes
were upon him, her glance hardening as she observed these signs. Bitter
enough had it been to endure his coldness whilst she had imagined that
it sprang from the austerity of his nature and the absorption of his
soul in matters political. But now that it seemed she might have cause
to temper her bitterness with jealousy her soul was turned to gall.

"What manner of woman, Brutus?" he asked after a second's pause.

"Tall, pale, straight, black hair, black eyes, silk gown--and savours
the aristocrat a league off," answered Brutus.

"Your official seems gifted with a very comprehensive eye," said Cecile
tartly.

But La Boulaye paid no heed to her. The flush deepened on his face, then
faded again, and he grew oddly pale. His official's inventory of her
characteristics fitted Mademoiselle de Bellecour in every detail.

"Admit her, Brutus," he commanded, and his voice had a husky sound.
Then, turning to Cecile, "You will give me leave?" he said, cloaking