t this hour, he
said, and we should be able to talk over our plans in peace.

What a place to say farewell forever to the only man I ever had, could
or would love--a couriers' dining room, with grease spots on the
tablecloth! However, there was no help for it, since I was facing the
world with fifty francs, and could not afford to pay for a romantic
background.

After all that had happened, and especially after certain impertinent
references made to our private affairs, I felt a new and very
embarrassing shyness in meeting the man with whom I'd been playing that
pleasant little game called "brother and sister." He was waiting for me
in the couriers' room, which was even dingier and had more grease spots
than I had fancied, and I hurried into speech to cover my nervousness.

"I don't know how I'm going to thank you for all you've done for me," I
stammered. "That horrible Bertie--"

"Let's not talk of him," said Jack. "Put him out of your mind for ever.
He has no place there, or in your life--and no more have any of the
incidents that led up to him. You've had a very bad time of it, poor
little girl, and now--"

"Oh, I haven't," I exclaimed. "I've been happier than ever before in my
life. That is--I--it was all so novel, and like a play--"

"Well, now the play's over," Jack broke in, pitying my evident
embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you if you'd let me advise and perhaps
help you. We _have_ been brother and sister, you know. Nothing can take
that away from us."

"No," said I, in a queer little voice. "Nothing can."

"You want to go to England, I know," he went on. "And--if you'll forgive
my taking liberties, you haven't much money in hand, you've almost told
me. I suppose you haven't changed your mind about your relations in
Paris? You wouldn't like to go back to them, or write, and tell them
firmly that you won't marry the person they seem to have set their
hearts on for you? That you've made your own choice, and intend to abide
by it; but that if they'll be sensible and receive you, you're willing
to stop with them until--until the man in England--"

"_What_ man in England?" I cut him short, in utter bewilderment.

"Why, the--er--you didn't tell me his name, of course, but that rich
chap you expected to meet when you got over to England. Don't you think
it would be better if he came to you at your cousins', if they--"

"There _isn't_ any 'rich chap'," I exclaimed. "I don't know what you
mean--oh, _yes_, I