ing every crevice that
might emit a ray of light, he let us linger on long after closing time.

Marie's was one of those classic souls which by some anomaly,
passing by the older lineages and cultures of the East, find
birthplace in a bleak untutored village of the West. To this bareness
some succumb, and the divine afflatus dies. Still others roam
restlessly up and down, searching until they find their milieu and
then for the first time their spirit glows.

Music had breathed upon this girl's spirit, touched with a vagabond
desire. To satisfy it she must have money. So she gave lessons to
children. Then a publisher bought some little melodies that she
had set to words. And lastly, grave and reverend committeemen,
after hesitating over her youth, made her head of music in a
university of western Montana.

Early in 1914, with her gold reserves grown large enough for the
venture, she set sail for the siege of Paris. To her charm and
sterling worth it had soon capitulated--a quicker victory than she
had dared to hope for. Around her studio in a street off the
Champs Elysees she gathered a coterie of kindred souls. She told
of the idealism and camaraderie of the little circle, while its foibles
she touched upon with much merriment. Behind this outward
jesting I gained a glimpse of the fight she had made for her
advance.

"It's been hard," I said, "but what a lot you have found along the
way."

"Yes, far more than you can imagine," she replied; "I have found
Robert le Marchand."

"And who is he?"

"Well, he is an artist and an athlete, and he is just back from
Albania--where he had most wonderful adventures. He has written
them up for 'Gaulois.' His home is in Normandy. And he is heir to a
large estate in Italy in the South--in what looks like the heel on the
map. And he has a degree from the Sorbonne and he is the real
prince of our little court. And, best of all, he loves me."

Then she told the story of her becoming the princess of the little
court.

"From his ancestral place in Italy," she said, "Robert sent me
baskets of fruit gathered in his groves by his own hands. In one he
placed a sprig of orange-blossoms. We laughed about it when we
met again and------"

I saw that after this affairs had ripened to a quick conclusion. In
drives along the boulevards, in walks through the moonlit woods,
at dinners, concerts, dances--these two mingled their dreams for
their home in Normandy. The only discord in this s