the room and passed out through the
tropical conservatory to join the rest of the company.

"Yes--away from people."

"Then it is not numbers, I am glad to know, that make a world."

She did not reply. But when he encountered her, robed for departure, at
the foot of the stairway, she gave him her hand in good-night, and their
eyes met for a moment.

I wonder if that was the time? Probably not. I fancy that when the right
day came she confessed that the moment was when she first saw him enter
their box at the opera.

Henderson walked down the avenue slowly, hearing the echo of his own
steps in the deserted street. He was in no haste to reach home. It
was such a delightful evening-snowing a little, and cold, but so
exhilarating. He remembered just how she turned her head as she got into
the carriage. She had touched his arm lightly once in the gallery to
call his attention to a picture. Yes, the world was larger, larger, by
one, and it would seem large--her image came to him distinctly--if she
were the only one.

Henderson was under the spell of this evening when the next, in response
to a note asking him to call for a moment on business, he was shown into
the Eschelle drawing-room. It was dimly lighted, but familiarity with
the place enabled him without difficulty to find his way down the
long suite, rather overcrowded with luxurious furniture, statuary, and
pictures on easels, to the little library at the far end glowing in a
rosy light.

There, ensconced in a big chair, a book in her hand, one pretty foot on
the fender, sat Carmen, in a grayish, vaporous toilet, which took a warm
hue from the color of the spreading lamp-shades. On the carved table
near was a litter of books and of nameless little articles, costly and
coquettish, which assert femininity, even in a literary atmosphere.
Over the fireplace hung a picture of spring--a budding girl, smiling and
winning, in a semi-transparent raiment, advancing with swift steps to
bring in the season of flowers and of love. The hand that held the book
rested upon the arm of the chair, a finger inserted in the place where
she had been reading, her rounded white arm visible to the elbow, and
Carmen was looking into the fire in the attitude of reflection upon a
suggestive passage.

Women have so many forms of attraction, different women are attractive
in so many different ways, moods are so changing, beauty is so
undefinable, and has so many weapons. And yet men are c