he tears Anne's grew bright.
When he had finished she stretched out her hand impulsively.

"Oh, I call it splendid of you!"

He took the hand and, in his graceful French fashion, touched it with
his lips. She flushed, having expected, in her English way, that he
would grasp it.

"Your commendation, mademoiselle, is sweet to hear," said he.

"I hope he will grow up to be a true comfort to you, M. Pujol," said
Miss Janet.

"I can understand a woman doing what you've done, but scarcely a man,"
said Miss Anne.

"But, dear mademoiselle," cried Aristide, with a large gesture, "cannot
a man have his heart touched, his--his--_ses entrailles, enfin_--stirred
by baby fingers? Why should love of the helpless and the innocent be
denied him?"

"Why, indeed?" said Miss Janet.

Miss Anne said, humbly: "I only meant that your devotion to Jean was all
the more beautiful, M. Pujol."

Soon after this they parted, the night air having grown chill. Both
ladies shook hands with him warmly.

Anne's hand lingered the fraction of a second longer in his than
Janet's. She had seen Jean in his bath.

Aristide wandered down the gay avenue into the open road and looked at
the stars, reading in their splendour a brilliant destiny for Jean. He
felt, in his sensitive way, that the two sweet-souled Englishwomen had
deepened and sanctified his love for Jean. When he returned to the hotel
he kissed his incongruous room-mate with the gentleness of a woman.

In the morning he went round to the garage. The foreman mechanician
advanced to meet him.

"Well?"

"There is nothing to be done, monsieur."

"What do you mean by 'nothing to be done'?" asked Aristide.

The other shrugged his sturdy shoulders.

"She is worn out. She needs new carburation, new cylinders, new
water-circulation, new lubrication, new valves, new brakes, new
ignition, new gears, new bolts, new nuts, new everything. In short, she
is not repairable."

Aristide listened in incredulous amazement. His automobile, his
wonderful, beautiful, clashing, dashing automobile unrepairable! It was
impossible. But a quarter of an hour's demonstration by the foreman
convinced him. The car was dead. The engine would never whir again. All
the petrol in the world would not stimulate her into life. Never again
would he sit behind that wheel rejoicing in the insolence of speed. The
car, which, in spite of her manifold infirmities, he had fondly imagined
to be immortal, had run her last co