transposed from higher to lower levels; this base betrayal
of his ideals she felt Keroulan had committed. Had he not said that love
should be like "un baiser sur un miroir"? Was he, after all, what the
princess had called him? And was he only a mock sun swimming in a
firmament of glories which he could have outshone?

A servant knocked and, not receiving a response, entered with a letter.
The superscription was strange. She opened and read:--

DEAR AND TENDER CHILD: I know you were angry with me when
we parted. I am awaiting here below your answer to come to you and
bare my heart. Say yes!

"Is the gentleman downstairs?" she asked. The servant bowed. The blood
in her head buzzing, she nodded, and the man disappeared. Standing there
in the bright summer light, Ermentrude Adams saw her face in the oval
glass, above the fireplace, saw its pallor, the strained expression of
the eyes, and like a drowning person she made a swift inventory of her
life, and, with the insane hope of one about to be swallowed up by the
waters, she grasped at a solitary straw. Let him come; she would have an
explanation from him! The torture of doubt might then be brought to an
end....

Some one glided into the apartment. Turning quickly, Ermentrude
recognized Madame Keroulan. Before she could orient herself that lady
took her by both hands, and uttering apologetic words, forced the amazed
girl into a chair.

"Don't be frightened, dear young lady. I am not here to judge, but to
explain. Yes, I know my husband loves you. But do not believe in him. He
is a _terrific_ man." This word she emphasized as if doubtful of its
meaning. "Ah, if you but knew the inferno of my existence! There are so
many like you--stop, do not leave! You are not to blame. I, Lillias
Keroulan, do not censure your action. My husband is an evil man and a
charlatan. Hear me out! He has only the gift of words. He steals all his
profundities of art from dead philosophers. He is not a genuine poet. He
is not a dramatist. I swear to you that he is now the butt of artistic
Paris. The Princesse de Lancovani made him--she is another of his sort.
He _was_ the mode; now he is desperate because his day has passed. He
knows you are rich. He desires your money, not _you_. I discovered that
he was coming here this day. Oh, I am cleverer than he. I followed. Here
I am to save you from him--and from yourself--he is not now below in the
salon."

"Please go away!" indignant