on. He described
combats with crocodiles, lion-hunts, feasts with terrific savages from
the interior, who brought their lady wives chastely clad in petticoats
made out of human teeth; he drew pictures of the town, a kind of
palm-shaded Paris by the sea, where one ate ortolans and oysters as big
as soup-plates, and where Chinamen with pigtails rode about the streets
on camels. It was not a correct description of Honduras, but, all the
same, an exotic atmosphere stimulating and captivating rose from the
pages. With this it was necessary to combine expressions of affection.
At first it was difficult. Essential delicacy restrained him. He had
also to keep in mind Batterby's vernacular. To address Fleurette,
impalpable creation of fairyland, as "old girl" was particularly
distasteful. By degrees, however, the artist prevailed. And then at last
the man himself took to forgetting the imaginary writer and poured out
words of love, warm, true, and passionate.

And every week Fleurette would smile and tell him the wondrous news, and
would put into his hands an unstamped letter to post, which he, with a
wrench of the heart, would add to the collection in the drawer.

Once she said, diffidently, with an unwonted blush and her pale blue
eyes swimming: "I write English so badly. Won't you read the letter and
correct my mistakes?"

But Aristide laughed and licked the flap of the envelope and closed it.
"What has love to do with spelling and grammar? The good Reginald would
prefer your bad English to all the turned phrases of the Academie
Francaise."

"It is as you like, Aristide," said Fleurette, with wistful eyes.

Yet, in spite of the weekly letters, Fleurette continued to droop. The
winter came, and Fleurette was no longer able to stay among the cabbages
of Mme. Bidoux. She lay on her bed in the little room, ten feet by
seven, away, away at the top of the house in the Rue Saint Honore. The
doctor, informed of her comparative happiness, again shrugged his
shoulders. There was nothing more to be done.

"She is dying, monsieur, for want of strength to live."

Then Aristide went about with a great heartache. Fleurette would die;
she would never see the man she loved again. What would he say when he
returned and learned the tragic story? He would not even know that
Aristide, loving her, had been loyal to him. When the Director of the
Agence Pujol personally conducted the clients of the Hotel du Soleil et
de l'Ecosse to the Grand