own Christmas Eve was the time to search for
fathers. Just supposing somebody else had gone out and snapped him up
instead of me!"

As a matter of fact somebody else had gone out, and had come very near
indeed to snapping him up; but there are things which do not bear
thinking of. It was Hugh's firm conviction that Destiny and not Jane,
had flung Rosemary in front of his motor; but Destiny could not be
rewarded and Jane could.

Rosemary would be satisfied with nothing less than a formal
presentation; and that the ceremony might be gone through without delay,
the car was directed towards the Condamine. As they neared the street of
the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, a cab came jingling round the corner.

It was occupied by two ladies who sat half buried in travelling bags,
rugs, baskets, and shawl straps, such as women who are not of the Anglo
Saxon races love. A tiny motorphobe in the shape of a black Pomeranian
yapped viciously at the automobile as the vehicles passed each other;
and though the ladies--one stout, the other slim--were thickly veiled,
Rosemary cried out, "Oh, it's the Comtesse and Mademoiselle. They must
be going away."

Hugh said nothing, but his silence was eloquent to Evelyn, who knew now
the whole story of the girl with the soft eyes. Both were pleased that
this was the last of her; but neither quite knew Mademoiselle de
Lavalette. She had been busy with other matters besides her packing,
while la bella Madonna and her suite were collecting adorers on the
heights of Eze.

Evelyn and Rosemary disappeared to take off their hats before the grand
presentation ceremony should begin, and Hugh had begun to occupy the
time of their absence by lighting the fire with pine cones, when a cry
from the beloved voice called him to the room adjoining.

The door was open, and the woman and the child stood dumbfounded and
overwhelmed in a scene of incredible desolation.

The air was acrid with the smell of burning. Blouses, pink and green,
and cream, and blue, were stirred into a seething mass in the fireplace,
as in a witch's cauldron, their fluffy laces burnt and blackened.
Chiffon fichus torn in ribbons strewed the carpet. An ivory fan had been
trampled into fragments on the hearth-rug, and a snow-storm of feathers
from a white boa had drifted over the furniture. On the wash-stand a
spangled white tulle hat lay drowning in a basin half full of water.

[Illustration: Their fluffy laces burnt and blackened. Chiff