, momentarily _clairvoyant_, felt the violent heartbeat, the caught
breath, that told the woman of his presence--felt to a nicety the
control of her expression, the rigidity of her body, as she slowly
raised her head and met his eyes; then he saw the man bow, making some
suggestion, and he leaned back in his seat with a little sigh of
satisfaction as the woman smiled and rose and the two began to dance.

Both tall above the ordinary, they were a well-suited couple, and a
certain pleasure filled the beholder's mind as they moved decorously up
and down the long aisle formed by the double row of tables--the man
entirely indifferent to his surroundings, dancing in this Parisian
supper-place precisely as he would have danced in a London ball-room;
the woman following his every movement with a passivity--a oneness--that
gave no hint of the definite purpose at work within her brain.

The dance over, he led her back to her table, drew her chair forward
with elaborate politeness, bowed and, with a murmured word, strolled
back to his own table.

So sure had been her triumph, so abrupt its collapse, that Max--smoking
his cigarette, sipping his coffee--turned, with a little exclamation, to
Blake.

"Have you observed, _mon ami_? Oh, why was that?"

Blake was carefully lighting a cigar.

"'Twould be hard to say," he answered, meditatively. "In a matter of
emotion, an Englishman has a way of getting frightened of himself. This
particular specimen has come over to Paris to play--and he doesn't fancy
fire for a toy!"

"And what will happen? What will be the end?" Max had laid his cigarette
aside; his fingers were interlaced, sure sign that his emotions were
running high; and his eyes, when he fixed them on Blake's, held a touch
of their rare sombre fire.

"How will it end, you say? Guess, my child!"

Max shook his head.

"Well, boy, Eve will be Eve to the end of time--and Adam will be Adam!"

"You mean--? Oh, but look!"

This last was called forth by the rising from table of the trio--the
quiet passing from the room of the fair man in the train of his friend
and the little dark lady.

It seemed so final, so sharp an answer to his question, that Max could
feel--as things personal and close--the sick sinking of the heart, the
accompanying whiteness of cheek that must fall upon the woman sitting
immovable and alone.

"I am sorry!" he cried. "Oh, but I am sorry!"

Blake looked thoughtfully at the tip of his cigar.

"Wai