ing in a chamber whose one large window overlooked
the Place Vendome. M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the other two
occupants of the apartment, was reading the _Moniteur_, pausing from
time to time to wipe his glasses, and taking scrupulous pains not to
glance towards the lounge at his right, on which were seated
Mademoiselle Dorine and a young American gentleman, whose handsome face
rather frankly told his position in the family. There was not a happier
man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life had become so
delicious to him that he shrunk from looking beyond to-day. What could
the future add to his full heart? what might it not take away? In
certain natures the deepest joy has always something of melancholy in
it, a presentiment, a fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name.
Wentworth was conscious of this subtile shadow, that night, when he rose
from the lounge, and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a
moment before parting. A careless observer would not have thought him,
as he was, the happiest man in Paris.

M. Dorine laid down his paper and came forward. "If the house," he said,
"is such as M. Martin describes it, I advise you to close with him at
once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I am too sad at
losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage for her.
Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss
it; for we have seats for M. Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. By
to-morrow night," he added laughingly, "little Julie here will be an old
lady, ----'t is such an age from now until then."

The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spots
within thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanes brought
him to M. Martin's estate. In a kind of dream the young man wandered
from room to room, inspected the conservatory, the stables, the lawns,
the strip of woodland through which a merry brook sang to itself
continually; and, after dining with M. Martin, completed the purchase,
and turned his steps towards the station, just in time to catch the
express train.

As Paris stretched out before him, with its million lights twinkling in
the early dusk, and its sharp spires here and there pricking the sky, it
seemed to Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. On
reaching Paris he drove to his hotel, where he found several letters
lying on the table. He did not trouble himself even to glance at their