ations, there seemed to be
only a good-fellowship entirely of the mind between them, a playful
familiarity.

"I called at your house, Mademoiselle, on my way to the Bois."

"So I understood. You even went into the studio."

"And I saw the famous group--my group."

"Well?"

"It is very fine. The greyhound runs like a mad dog. The fox is
admirably done. But I didn't quite understand. You told me that it was
the story of us two."

"And so it is! Look carefully. It's a fable that I read in--You don't
read Rabelais, Monsieur le Duc?"

"Faith, no. He is too vulgar."

"Well, I have learned to read him. Very ill-bred, you know! Oh! very.
My fable, then, is taken from Rabelais. This is it: Bacchus has made a
wonderful fox that cannot possibly be overtaken. Vulcan, for his part,
has given a dog of his making the power to overtake any animal that he
pursues. 'Now,' as my author says, 'suppose that they meet.' You see
what a wild and interminable race will result. It seems to me, my dear
duke, that destiny has brought us face to face in like manner, endowed
with contrary qualities, you, who have received from the gods the gift
of reaching all hearts, and I, whose heart will never be taken."

She said this, looking him fairly in the face, almost laughing, but
slim and erect in her white tunic, which seemed to protect her person
against the liberties of his wit. He, the conqueror, the irresistible,
had never met one of that audacious, self-willed race. So he enveloped
her in all the magnetic currents of his seductive charm, while around
them the murmur of the fete, the flute-like laughter, the rustling of
satins and strings of pearls played an accompaniment to that duet of
worldly passion and juvenile irony.

In a moment he rejoined:

"But how did the gods extricate themselves from that scrape?"

"By changing the two coursers to stone."

"By heaven," said he, "that is a result which I refuse to accept. I
defy the gods to turn my heart to stone."

A flame darted from his eyes, extinguished instantly at the thought
that people were looking at them.

In truth many people were looking at them, but no one with such deep
interest as Jenkins, who prowled around them, impatient and chafing, as
if he were angry with Felicia for monopolizing the important guest of
the evening. The girl laughingly remarked upon the fact to the duke:

"They will say that I am appropriating you."

She pointed to Monpavon standing expectantly