hifting gloom of the stair-case to the soft radiance cast
through the open door of her bedroom was for poor Zuleika an almost
heartening transition. She stood awhile on the threshold, watching
Melisande dart to and fro like a shuttle across a loom. Already the main
part of the packing seemed to have been accomplished. The wardrobe was a
yawning void, the carpet was here and there visible, many of the
trunks were already brimming and foaming over... Once more on the road!
Somewhat as, when beneath the stars the great tent had been struck, and
the lions were growling in their vans, and the horses were pawing the
stamped grass and whinnying, and the elephants trumpeting, Zuleika's
mother may often have felt within her a wan exhilaration, so now did the
heart of that mother's child rise and flutter amidst the familiar bustle
of "being off." Weary she was of the world, and angry she was at not
being, after all, good enough for something better. And yet--well, at
least, good-bye to Oxford!

She envied Melisande, so nimbly and cheerfully laborious till the day
should come when her betrothed had saved enough to start a little cafe
of his own and make her his bride and dame de comptoir. Oh, to have a
purpose, a prospect, a stake in the world, as this faithful soul had!

"Can I help you at all, Melisande?" she asked, picking her way across
the strewn floor.

Melisande, patting down a pile of chiffon, seemed to be amused at such
a notion. "Mademoiselle has her own art. Do I mix myself in that?" she
cried, waving one hand towards the great malachite casket.

Zuleika looked at the casket, and then very gratefully at the maid. Her
art--how had she forgotten that? Here was solace, purpose. She would
work as she had never worked yet. She KNEW that she had it in her to do
better than she had ever done. She confessed to herself that she had too
often been slack in the matter of practice and rehearsal, trusting her
personal magnetism to carry her through. Only last night she had badly
fumbled, more than once. Her bravura business with the Demon Egg-Cup had
been simply vile. The audience hadn't noticed it, perhaps, but she
had. Now she would perfect herself. Barely a fortnight now before her
engagement at the Folies Bergeres! What if--no, she must not think of
that! But the thought insisted. What if she essayed for Paris that
which again and again she had meant to graft on to her repertory--the
Provoking Thimble?

She flushed at the p