the idle classes. The women showed their sentiments
in the dressing of their hair. Very curious--very curious. And here, in
the hair, half-concealed, is an imitation dove's nest."

"The deuce there is!" ejaculated Turner, pulling at his cigar.

"A fashion which ruled for a still briefer period."

"I should hope so. Well, roll the thing up, and I will do my best for
you. I'm less likely to be taken in than you are, perhaps. If I sell it,
I will send you a cheque this evening. It is a beautiful face."

"Yes," agreed Septimus Marvin, with a sharp sigh. "It is a beautiful
face."

And he slowly rolled up his most treasured possession, which John Turner
tucked under his arm. On the Pont Royal they parted company.

"By the way," said John Turner, after they had shaken hands, "you never
told me what sort of a man this young fellow is--this Loo Barebone?"

"The dearest fellow in the world," answered Marvin, with eyes aglow
behind his spectacles. "To me he has been as a son--an elder brother, as
it were, to little Sep. I was already an elderly man, you know, when Sep
was born. Too old, perhaps. Who knows? Heaven's way is not always marked
very clearly."

He nodded vaguely and went away a few paces. Then he remembered
something and came back.

"I don't know if I ought to speak of such a thing. But I quite hoped, at
one time, that Miriam might one day recognise his goodness of heart."

"What?" interrupted Turner. "The mate of a coasting schooner!"

"He is more than that, my friend," answered Septimus Marvin, nodding his
head slowly, so that the sun flashed on his spectacles in such a manner
as to make Turner blink. Then he turned away again and crossed the
bridge, leaving the English banker at the corner of it, still blinking.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE CITY THAT SOON FORGETS

There are in humble life some families which settle their domestic
differences on the doorstep, while the neighbours, gathered hastily
by the commotion, tiptoe behind each other to watch the fun. In the
European congerie France represents this loud-voiced household, and
Paris--Paris, the city that soon forgets--is the doorstep whereon they
wrangle.

The bones of contention may be pitched far and wide by the chances and
changes of exile, but the contending dogs bark and yap in Paris. At this
time there lived, sometimes in Italy, sometimes at Frohsdorf, a jovial
young gentleman, fond of sport and society, cultivating the tastes and
enjoying th