ead on her shoulder. She felt the folds of his neck and kissed him.
He followed her about the garden like a dog. She brought him to Gaston,
locked up, and said with a teasing look, "I have conquered him: he is
mine!"

Gaston looked her in her eyes. "He is yours."

"And you?"

"He is mine." His look burned into her soul-how deep, how joyful!

She turned away, her face going suddenly pale. She kept the horse for
some time, but at last gave him up again to Jacques. Gaston stepped from
the doorway into the garden and met her. It was now dusk. Annette was
inside. They walked together in silence for a time. Presently she drew
close to him. He felt his veins bounding. Her hand slid into his arm,
and, dark as it was, he could see her eyes lifting to his, shining,
profound. They had reached the end of the garden, and now turned to come
back again.

Suddenly he said, his eyes holding hers: "The horse is yours--and mine."

She stood still; but he could see her bosom heaving hard. She threw up
her head with a sound half sob, half laugh....

"You are mad!" she said a moment afterwards, as she lifted her head from
his breast.

He laughed softly, catching her cheek to his. "Why be sane? It was to
be."

"The gipsy and the gentleman?"

"Gipsies all!"

"And the end of it?"

"Do you not love me, Andree?" She caught her hands over her eyes.

"I do not know what it is--only that it is madness! I see, oh, I see a
hundred things."

Her hot eyes were on space. "What do you see?" he urged. She gave a
sudden cry:

"I see you at my feet--dead."

"Better than you at mine, Andree."

"Let us go," she said hurriedly.

"Wait," he whispered.

They talked for a little time. Then they entered the studio. Annette was
asleep in her chair. Andree waked her, and they bade Gaston good-night.

CHAPTER XVI. WHEREIN LOVE KNOWS NO LAW SAVE THE MAN'S WILL.

In another week it was announced that Mademoiselle Victorine would take
a month's holiday; to the sorrow of her chief, and to the delight of Mr.
Meyerbeer, who had not yet discovered his man, though he had a pretty
scandal well-nigh brewed.

Count Ploare was no more, Gaston Belward was. Zoug-Zoug was in the
country at Fontainebleau, working at his picture. He had left on the
morning after Gaston discovered Andree. He had written, asking his
nephew to come for some final sittings. Possibly, he said, Mademoiselle
Cerise and others would be down for a Sunday. Gaston had not gone