e that the single camellia thrust in her corsage was less
waxen in its whiteness than her neck.

I caught her hands and she stood close to me, smiling bravely, the tips
of her fingers trembling in my own.

"You are ill!" I exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "You must go
straight to bed."

"No, no," she replied, with an effort. "Only tired, very tired."

"You should not have let me come," I protested.

She smiled and smoothed back a wave of her glossy black hair and I saw
the old mischievous gleam flash in her dark eyes.

"Come," she whispered, leading me to the door of the dining room. "It is
a secret," she confided, with a forced little laugh. "Look!" And she
pinched my arm.

I glanced within--the table with its lace and silver under the glow of
the red candle-shades was laid for two.

"It was nice of you," I said.

"We shall dine alone, you and I," she murmured. "I am so tired of
company."

I was on the point of impulsively mentioning poor Tanrade's absence, but
the subtle look in her eyes checked me. During dinner we should have our
serious little talk, I said to myself as we returned to the library
table.

"It's so amusing, that little comedy of Flandrean's," laughed Alice,
picking up the volume I had been scanning. "The second act is a jewel
with its delicious situation in which Francois Villers, the husband, and
Therese, his wife, divorce in order to carry out between them a secret
love-affair--a series of mysterious rendezvous that terminate in an
amusing elopement. _Tres chic_, Flandrean's comedy. It should have a
_succes fou_ at the Palais Royal."

"Madame is served," gravely announced Henri.

Not once during dinner was Alice serious. Over the soup--an excellent
bisque of _ecrevisses_--she bubbled over with the latest Parisian
gossip, the new play at the Odeon, the fashion in hats. With the fish
she prattled on over the limitations of the new directoire gowns and the
scandal involving a certain tenor and a duchess. Tanrade's defence,
which I had so carefully thought out and rehearsed in my garden, seemed
doomed to remain unheard, for her cleverness in evading the subject, her
sudden change to the merriest of moods, and her quick wit left me
helpless. Neither did I make any better progress during the pheasant and
the salad, and as she sipped but twice the Pommard and scarcely
moistened her lips with the champagne my case seemed hopeless. Henri
finally left us alone over our coffee and cigarettes