ot mixed up in his meals the last few days. Then an
idea struck him.

"If I skip afternoon tea, and dinner, and supper, and petit dejeuner, and
have two breakfasts running," he exclaimed brightly, "I shall begin fair
again." And he laughed, not loud, but murmuringly, for the first time.

They went round the Casino to the front of the Hotel de Paris, their
natural parting place. But there, on the steps, with legs apart, stood the
wretch with the evil eyes. He looked at her from afar, banteringly.
Defiance rose in Zora's soul. She would again show him that she was not a
lone and helpless woman at the mercy of the casual depredator.

"I'm taking you in to lunch with me, Mr. Dix. You can't refuse," she said;
and without waiting for a reply she sailed majestically past the wretch,
followed meekly by Septimus, as if she owned him body and soul.

As usual, many eyes were turned on her as she entered the restaurant--a
radiant figure in white, with black hat and black chiffon boa, and a deep
red rose in her bosom. The maitre d'hotel, in the pride of reflected glory,
conducted her to a table near the window. Septimus trailed inconclusively
behind. When he seated himself he stared at her silently in a mute surmise
as the gentlemen in the poem did at the peak in Darien. It was even a
wilder adventure than the memorable drive. That was but a caprice of the
goddess; this was a sign of her friendship. The newness of their intimacy
smote him dumb. He passed his hand through his Struwel Peter hair and
wondered. Was it real? There sat the goddess, separated from him by the
strip of damask, her gold-flecked eyes smiling frankly and trustfully into
his, pulling off her gloves and disclosing, in almost disconcerting
intimacy, her warm wrists and hands. Was he dreaming, as he sometimes did,
in broad daylight, of a queer heaven in which he was strong like other men
and felt the flutter of wings upon his cheek? Something soft was in his
hand. Mechanically he began to stuff it up his sleeve. It was his napkin.
Zora's laugh brought him to earth--to happy earth.

It is a pleasant thing to linger _tete-a-tete_ over lunch on the terrace of
the Hotel de Paris. Outside is the shade of the square, the blazing
sunshine beyond the shadow; the fountain and the palms and the doves; the
white gaiety of pleasure houses; the blue-gray mountains cut sharp against
the violet sky. Inside, a symphony of cool tones: the pearl of summer
dresses; the snow, cryst