R.L.C.

CONTENTS.

A SIESTA

A MONKEY

A TALE OF THE SEA

A DINNER

TROFAST

KAREN

MY SISTER'S JOURNEY TO MODUM

LETTERS FROM MASTER-PILOT SEEHUS

OLD DANCES

AUTUMN

A SIESTA.

In an elegant suite of chambers in the Rue Castiglione sat a merry party
at dessert.

Senhor Jose Francisco de Silvis was a short-legged, dark-complexioned
Portuguese, one of those who usually come from Brazil with incredible
wealth, live incredible lives in Paris, and, above all, become notorious
by making the most incredible acquaintances.

In that little company scarcely anybody, except those who had come in
pairs, knew his neighbour. And the host himself knew his guests only
through casual meetings at balls, _tables d' hote_, or in the street.

Senhor de Silvis laughed much, and talked loudly of his success in life,
as is the habit of rich foreigners; and as he could not reach up to the
level of the Jockey Club, he gathered the best company he could find.
When he met anyone, he immediately asked for the address, and sent next
day an invitation to a little dinner. He spoke all languages, even
German, and one could see by his face that he was not a little proud
when he called over the table: Mein lieber Herr Doctor! Wie geht's
Ihnen?'

There was actually a live German doctor among this merry party. He had
an overgrown light-red beard, and that Sedan smile which invariably
accompanies the Germans in Paris.

The temperature of the conversation rose with the champagne; the sounds
of fluent and broken French were mingled with those of Spanish and
Portuguese. The ladies lay back in their chairs and laughed. The guests
already knew each other well enough not to be reserved or constrained.
Jokes and _bons-mots_ passed over the table, and from mouth to mouth.
'Der liebe Doctor' alone engaged in a serious discussion with the
gentleman next to him--a French journalist with a red ribbon in his
buttonhole.

And there was one more who was not drawn into the general merriment. He
sat on the right of Mademoiselle Adele, while on the left was her new
lover, the corpulent Anatole, who had surfeited himself on truffles.

During dinner Mademoiselle Adele had endeavoured, by many innocent
little arts, to infuse some life into her right-hand neighbour. However,
he remained very quiet, answering her courteously, but briefly, and in
an undertone.

At first she thought he was a Pole-