iably a murmur of applause when the heroine enters
a room full of people, which fact serves, at all events, to show the
breeding and social status of persons with whom French novelists are in
the habit of associating. There was therefore no applause when Paul and
Etta made their appearance, but that lady had, nevertheless, the
satisfaction of perceiving glances, not only of admiration, but of
interest and even of disapproval, among her own sex. Her dress she knew
to be perfect, and when she perceived the craning pale face of the
inevitable lady-journalist, peering between the balusters of a gallery,
she thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately beneath that
gallery, and slowly turned round like a beautifully garnished joint
before the fire of cheap publicity.

To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a number of the
friends of his youth--tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with a
tendency toward length and spareness--who greeted him almost
affectionately. Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters,
which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull--a form of faint praise
which failed to damn. There were a number of ladies to whom it was
necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had
missed their mark. From the gallery the washed-out female journalists
poked out their eager faces--for they were women still, and liked to
look upon a man when he was strong.

And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at
the door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two
literal facts literally. The one fact was that they were forbidden to
admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were
not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two
great motives of man--Love or Money.

Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order on
his breast. He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have
been, but were not, of the committee. Finally, however, he mentioned the
historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian
emperor successfully for England.

"Yes, me lord, her ladyship's here," answered the man.

Steinmetz wrote on a card, "In memory of '56, let me in," and sent in
the missive.

A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him with
outstretched hand.

"What mischief are you about?" she enquired, "you stormy petrel! This is
no place fo