y of striped awning
cloth had been drawn over the tables, as the rather heavy air of
the evening bad been punctured occasionally by a swift scattering
of rain. Nancy was half-way across the court before she realized
that Collier Pratt was still occupying his accustomed seat under the
shadow of the big Venus. She had not seen him face to face or
communicated with him since the day she had looked him up in the
telephone book and sent his cape to him by special messenger. She
stopped involuntarily as she reached his side, and he looked up and
smiled as he recognized her.

"You're late again, Miss Ann Martin," he said, rising and pulling out
a chair for her opposite his own. "I think perhaps I can pull the
wires and procure you some sustenance if you will say the word."

"I've no word to say," Nancy said, "but how do you do? I've just
dined elsewhere. I only stopped in here for a moment to get
something--something I left here at lunch."

"In that case I'll offer you a drop of Michael's tea in my water
glass." He poured a tablespoonful or so of claret from the teapot into
the glass of ice-water before him, and added several lumps of sugar to
the concoction, which he stirred gravely for some time before he
offered it to her. "I never touch water myself. This is _eau rougie_
as the French children drink it. It's really better for you than
ice-cream and a glass of water."

"And less American," Nancy murmured with her eyes down.

"And less American," he acquiesced blandly.

Nancy sipped her drink, and Collier Pratt stirred the dregs in his
coffee cup--Nancy had overheard some of her patrons remarking on the
curious habits of a man who consumed a pot of tea and a pot of coffee
at one and the same meal--and they regarded each other for some time
in silence. Michael and Hildeguard, Molly and Dolly and two others of
the staff of girls were grouped in the doorway exactly in Nancy's
range of vision, and whispering to one another excitedly concerning
the phenomenon that met their eyes.

"The little girl?" Nancy said, trying to ignore the composite scrutiny
to which she was being subjected, by turning determinedly to her
companion, "the little girl that you spoke of--is she well?"

"She's as well as a motherless baby could be, subjected to the
irregularities of a life like mine. Still she seems to thrive on it."

"Is she yours?" Nancy asked.

"Yes, she's mine," Collier Pratt said, gravely dismissing the subject,
and leaving