the other. But he did not dare; so he waited,
until he had persuaded himself that not only his watch, but the hotel
clock and the Casino clock must be slow.

Then he started, and suffered five suffocating minutes in the public
sitting-room of the Beau Soleil. It was a hideous room, with abominable
flowers sprawling over the wall paper and carpet, and all the windows
were shut, but he did not notice these things; nor did he recognise the
heavy scent that hung in the air as that which Mademoiselle de Lavalette
affected. The lady of the roses had ceased to exist for him; but, if he
had thought of her at all, he would have been glad that he had opened
her pink leather bag when it was thin, and shut it up when it was very
fat.

At the end of the five minutes, the door opened, and gave to his eyes a
vision; Evelyn and Rosemary in their new dresses and new hats.

It was all he could do to keep from crying "Thank Heaven," and to say a
mere "Merry Christmas" instead.

"Wicked, extravagant Boy," exclaimed Evelyn. "Do you know, we are most
unsuitably dressed? But we _had_ to put the things on, hadn't we? It was
wrong of you to buy them, but--don't look so terrified--it was sweet,
too; and I know just the feeling that prompted you to do it. What a
dream-Christmas this is going to be."

And then she and Rosemary thanked him separately, for each individual
thing he had given. It took some time, and they were nearly late for
Church, but not quite.

If Mademoiselle de Lavalette had been looking out of her window at a
certain moment she would have been exceedingly surprised, not only by
the transformation of Madame Clifford and _la petite bete_ from church
mice into visions, but still more by the sight of their companion.

But hot rage and cold disappointment had given her a bad night.

She had expected a guest for dinner. She had put on her prettiest frock,
and had forbidden her mother the Comtesse to paint. She had ordered
champagne, an extra entree, and a bunch of flowers for the table. Yet
the guest had neither come nor sent an excuse. She had stopped in the
house all the evening, thinking that he might have been detained by an
accident to his automobile; but the hours had dragged on emptily.
Nothing happened except a bad headache, and a quarrel with her mother,
who was ungratefully inclined to be sarcastic at her expense.

Half the night Mademoiselle had lain awake, wondering why the bird had
not come hopping into the tr