rbed I could
not see. As we drove on I asked her for a more definite direction. She
hesitated for a moment and then said Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.

"That will answer," I returned. "But that is only a road, and it is
raining hard. You have no umbrella. Surely you do not mean me to drop
you on an open road in this storm." I was becoming curious.

"It will do--it will do," she said.

I thought it strange, but I called out the order to Alphonse and bade
him promise a good _pourboire_.

As we drove away, all of the many people in the streets were hurrying
to take refuge from the sudden and unexpected downfall of heavy rain.
Women picked their way with the skill of the Parisienne, men ran for
shelter, and the carriages coming in haste from the afternoon drives
thronged the great avenue. The scene was not without amusement for
people not subject to its inconvenience and to the damage of gay
gowns. I made some laughing comment. She made no reply. Presently,
however, she took out her purse and said, "Monsieur will at least
permit me to--"

"Pardon me," I returned gaily: "I am just now the host, and as it may
never again chance that I have the pleasure of madame for a guest, I
must insist on my privileges."

For the first time she laughed, as if more at ease, and said, looking
up from her purse and flushing a little: "Unluckily, I cannot insist,
as I find that I am, for the time, too poor to be proud. I can only
pay in thanks. I am glad it is a fellow-countryman to whom I am
indebted."

We seemed to be getting on to more agreeable social terms, and I
expressed my regret that the torrent outside was beginning to leak in
at the window and through the top of the carriage. For a moment she
made no remark, and then said with needless emphasis:

"Yes, yes. It is dreadful. I hope--I mean, I trust--that it will never
occur again."

It was odd and hardly courteous. I said only, "Yes, it must be
disagreeable."

"Oh, I mean--I can't explain--I mean this--special ride, and I--I am
so wet."

Of course I accepted this rather inadequate explanation of language
which somehow did not seem to me to fit a woman evidently of the best
social class. As if she too felt the need to substitute a material
inconvenience for a less comprehensible and too abrupt statement, she
added: "I am really drenched," and then, as though with a return of
some more urgent feeling, "but there are worse things."

I said, "That may very well be." I began