down the glass of wine which she was about to raise to her lips. For near

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ly an hour she had not thought of Martin. She felt sundered from him by many seas and continents. Since seeing him through what scorching adventures had she

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not passed? She had changed. The world had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again. Tears came into her eyes. Lucilla, observing them, smiled. “You

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like Monsieur Martin?” “Everybody likes him; he is so gentle,” said Félise. “But is that what women look for in a man?” asked Lucilla. “Doesn’t s

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he want some one strong to lean on? Something to appeal to the imagination? Something more panache?” Félise thought of Lucien Viriot and his cavalry plum

the best features

e and shivered. No. She did not want panache. Martin’s quiet, simple ways, she knew not why, were worth all the clanking of all the sabres in the world put together. “Th

polished w

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at depends on temperament, mademoiselle,” said Félise, in French. Lucilla l

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aughingly exclaimed: “You dear little mouse. I suppose a tom-cat frightens yo

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u to death.” But Félise was only listening with her outer ears. “I am very

ood, the gleam of

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silver a nd cut glass

fond of cats,”

she r

, the bowl o
f orch
ids on t he table, th

eplied simply.


e delicate n
猻he had never dream

pon Lucilla laug

hed ag

ed of such t
she held herself to

ain with quick u


be a judge o


anding. “I have a half-grown Persian kitten,” she said, “rather a beauty. Céleste, apportez-moi le shah d

f table-linen—t

e Perse. That’s

my little joke.” “C’est un calembour,” said Félise, with a smile. “Of course it is. It’s real smart

he hundred adj

of you to see it

. I call him Padishah.” Céleste brought a grey woolly mass of felinity from a basket in a dim corner and ha

uncts of a wealt

nded it to Féli

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