t when Aristocrates opened the kitchen door and her
three cats came trotting in, she was overcome.

For each cat wore a red, white and blue cravat on which was pinned a
silk shamrock; and although Strindberg immediately keeled over on the
rug and madly attacked her cravat with her hind toes, the general
effect remained admirable.

Aristocrates seated Dulcie. Upon her plate was the box containing
chain and locket. And the girl cast a swift, inquiring glance across
the centre flowers at Barres.

"Yes, it's for you, Dulcie," he said.

She turned quite pale at sight of the little gift. After a silence she
leaned on the table with both elbows, shading her face with her
hands.

He let her alone--let the first tense moment in her youthful life ebb
out of it; nor noticed, apparently, the furtive and swift touch of her
best handkerchief to her closed eyes.

Aristocrates brought her a little glass of frosted orange juice. After
an interval, not looking at Barres, she sipped it. Then she took the
locket and chain from the satin-lined box, read the inscription,
closed her lids for a second's silent ecstasy, opened them looking at
him through rapturous tears, and with her eyes still fixed on him
lifted the chain and fastened it around her slender neck.

The luncheon then proceeded, the Prophet gravely assisting from the
vantage point of a neighbouring chair, the Houri, more emotional,
promenading earnestly at the heels of Aristocrates. As for Strindberg,
she possessed neither manners nor concentration, and she alternately
squalled her desires for food or frisked all over the studio,
attempting complicated maneuvres with every curtain-cord and tassel
within reach.

Dulcie had found her voice again--a low, uncertain, tremulous little
voice when she tried to thank him for the happiness he had given
her--a clearer, firmer voice when he dexterously led the conversation
into channels more familiar and serene.

They talked of the graduating exercises, of her part in them, of her
classmates, of education in general.

She told him that since she was quite young she had learned to play
the piano by remaining for an hour every day after school, and
receiving instruction from a young teacher who needed a little extra
pin money.

As for singing, she had had no instruction. Her voice had never been
tried, never been cultivated.

"We'll have it tried some day," he said casually.

But Dulcie shook her head, explaining that it was