man with such a face, I should never have
forgotten his name."

Captain Fermor was moody and gloomy, and
said impatiently, "I dare say—no doubt. Please
don't ask me why this, and why that, and wonder
at me for this and that. I have a headache, and
the racket of this place is enough to give one a
hundred headaches."

She was full of concern in a moment.

"How thoughtless and stupid I am," she
said. "Why did you not tell me?"

At their hotel the green and gold official came
rushing, and opened the door, as if it were a
matter of life and death they should be extricated
at once. The great stairs flashed out white and
spacious. The sleepless Bureaux, where the
lights blazed, were busy with their entries and
erasures of arrivals and departures day and night
long: of what were, in fact, the Births and
Deaths to the Grand Hotel and its monster
family.

At the top of the stairs Fermor stopped short
suddenly. "What a place!" he said. "I am
sick of their noise and flurry. One can't get a
minute's quiet here. Look there! What did I
say?"—as another carriage clattered in. "Shall
we leave early in the morning, and go to the
Mirabeau, or some Christian place?"

Deeply concerned for the pain which he must
be suffering, she answered, eagerly, "Yes, Charles.
Or what would you say—could we not go now?"

It was not nine o'clock.

"A very good idea," he said, with real
pleasure. "You could put a few things together,
and send for the boxes in the morning. You are
a clever child, and a ready child too."

Greatly elated by this unusual commendation,
she tripped away.

He went down to the Bureaux, where they
were so busy with the Births and Deaths. This
was to be a Death, for he was going to ask for
his bill. As he came out suddenly, a lady and
gentleman, who had descended from the carriage,
stopped him.

"What! Home again?" she said, "and we
just as soon as you."

Fermor began to gnaw at his moustache.

In a moment a waiter came to him with a strip
of paper, and asked would monsieur have a
carriage?

"Going away?" said the Spanish lady. "Only
think, Louis!  At this hour, too. Surely not.
Recollect, you were to have seen us to-morrow."

Fermor crushed up the paper. "We have
had to alter our arrangements," he said. "We
are obliged to go. We have very little time.
So——"

"No, no," said the Spanish lady, smiling, and
shaking her head. "This is a little fourberie—
some of the old old phantoms. Don't you
recollect when we lived at Eastport, and when
we were all so happy together? I dare say you
have told her all about the time. No? Absurd.
You can't go to-night. Where is Mrs. Fermor?
I shall easily persuade her. Send up for her."

Fermor looked at the lady doubtfully and
irresolutely, still crumpling the paper.

"No, no," she said, with encouragement,
"To-morrow morning is more rational. More
like a calm sensible Englishman. Above all,
when we meet an old friend whom we have
not seen for so long, and whom a mere chance
has helped us to meet. Do oblige me in this.
Let us sit down here awhile in Paradise, in the
Arabian Nights! There are a hundred things I
want to ask you—a hundred things you will
want to hear from me. It will be old times
returned over again."

There was something almost fascinating in her
face and voice. Fermor, bewildered, confused,
above all, surprised at the strange change in her
—at the lightness and airiness of her manner (for
she seemed a new Pauline)—made no resistance,
but passed out with her into the bright colonnade
where the thousand-and-one tables are
clustered, and the clink of glass and china
furnishes music.

Five minutes later came tripping down the
young Mrs. Fermor. She was ready, and her
little packing all done. But her husband was
gone.  A little confused from the sense of this
desertion, she went in to the Bureau.

Numero 60. Yes. Monsieur had been
furnished with the note. A little fit of curiosity
came over her at that moment, and she thought
she would refresh her husband's memory about
the lady at the theatre—pleasantly surprising
him with superior information. Who were in
Numero 110?

A few pages turned over with complaisance,
and the young lady registrar answered:

"Numero 110 et 111, Monsieur et Mdlle.
Manuel."

The young girl started. At the same moment
an obliging young boy-waiter came to tell her
that "Mr. Captain" was outside the café, sitting
with a lady.

CHAPTER III. THE COLONNADE OF THE GRAND
HOTEL.

UNDER that colonnade, and in the cool air,
with carriage-lights twinkling past, and seen
through the leaves of the trees, as though
in a garden—with airy waiters flitting by
with snowy napkins for wings, the English lady
and gentleman sat at coffee. It was the best
scenery in the world for confidence.

Every moment he was more and more amazed
at the change in her.

She was a new Pauline, older, yet "finer," more
dazzling, more splendid, more womanly; more
decided, too, in manner—firmer, and more
distinct in her voice. She was leaning over the
little marble table, looking at him earnestly as
she talked.

"Two years is a long time," she said, sadly.
"I seem to have lived a quarter of a century.
A thousand events have been crowded into that
time. Spain, France, England, Spain again.
We have been always travelling. It," she added,