he midst of a giant city that moves
along its indifferent way to the time of dance-music. In the hotel,
there was the chatter of tourists. His own tongue was prattled by men
and women whose lives seemed to revolve around the shops of the _Rue
de la Paix_, or whose literature was the information of the
guide-books. He felt that everyone was invading his somberness of mood
with trivialities, until, in revulsion against the whole stage-setting
of things, he had himself and his luggage transported to the _Hotel
Voltaire_, where the life about him was the simpler life of the less
pretentious _quais_ of the Seine.

After his _dejeuner_, he sat for a time attempting to readjust his
ideas. He had told Saxon that he would never again speak of love to
Duska. Now, he realized how barren of hope it would ever be for him to
renew his plea. She had bankrupted his heart. He had buried his own
hopes, and no one except himself had known at what cost to himself. He
had taken his place in the niche dedicated to closest friend, just
outside the inner shrine reserved for the one who could penetrate that
far. Now, he was in a greater distress. Now, he wanted only her
happiness, and as he had never wanted it before. Now, he realized that
the only source through which this could come was the source that
seemed hopelessly clogged. There was no doubt of his sincerity. Even
his own intimate questioning acquitted him of self-consideration.
Could he at that moment have had one wish fulfilled by some magic
agency of miracle, that wish would have been that he might lead Robert
Saxon, as Robert Saxon had been, to Duska, with all his memory and
love intact, and free from any incumbrance that might divide them.
That would have been the gift of all gifts, and the only gift that
would drive the look of heart-hunger and despair from her eyes.

Steele was restless, and, taking up his hat, he strolled out along the
quay, and turned at last into the _Boulevard St. Michel_, stretching
off in a broad vista of cafe-lined sidewalks. The life of the "_Boule
Mich_" held no attraction for him. In his earlier days, he had known
it from the river to the _Boulevard Montparnasse_. He knew its
tributary streets, its lodgings, its schools and the life which the
spirit of the modern is so rapidly revolutionizing from Bohemia's
shabby capital to a conventionalized district. None of these things
held for him the piquant challenge of novelty.

As he passed a certain cafe,