a
thousand lives. Mad'moiselle would adore him."

Sheila's demure chin tilted mutinously, "But I don't like devils, even
blue ones."

"Ah, you do not understand. C'est la guerre. We must lock away in our
hearts all the pity, all the tenderness, as we hide our jewels and our
treasures and mask our cathedrals. If we did not they would all be
destroyed and we would go quite mad." He smiled whimsically at Sheila, as
one smiles at a child who fails to comprehend. "Wait--wait till
mad'moiselle sees France. Then--" He finished with a shrug and left them.

They were in midstream when they saw the little man again. He came
hurrying toward them with both hands outstretched to Peter. "It is Mr.
Brooks. I did not know when I was speaking with you and mad'moiselle
before. They told me at the office of your paper that you would be sailing
to-day. May I present Jacques Marchand of the _Figaro_, a
fellow-journalist?" and he made a profound bow which included Sheila.

Peter introduced the girl beside him and the little man looked at her with
whetted interest and a twinkle of suppressed humor. "You women of America,
you come like battalions of good angels to nurse our devils. Eh bien,
before the sun goes down you shall meet your first one. Au 'voir till
then."

They were in the stern, watching the last of the sun in their wake as it
turned myriads of whirring wings to iridescent gold, when the little man
found them again. This time he was not alone. Close upon his heels came
the captain of the Blue Devils; and again the black eyes met Sheila's when
they were still a man's length apart.

"Mad'moiselle," said Jacques Marchand, "I have brought, as I
promised--Monsieur Satan--Mad'moiselle O'Leary. Look him well over; you
will see he has not the horns or cloven feet, nevertheless--mais, voila."

The captain was blushing like a very bashful little boy; he was smiling as
naively as an infant. Sheila guessed at his age and placed it not far from
twenty. Who had ever conceived of a boy-Mephistopheles? It was absurd. A
genuine diabolical personage had no right to a pre-middle age; for him all
years prior to forty should not exist. And here was undeniably a boy,
whose very bashfulness and naivete bore witness that he had not entirely
grown up. So Sheila smiled back upon him with the frankness and abandon
one feels so safe in bestowing upon youth.

"This paper-man, he likes to be what you call funny. It pays him well, and
he must keep, what