alind's fellow bar-maids turned to her
and said,--

"You know who that was?"

"Who?" said Rosalind, startled.

"That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?"

"No; who is she?"

"Why, that's"--and readers with heart-disease had better brace
themselves up for a great shock--"that's SYLVIA JOY, the famous dancer!"

CHAPTER IX

SYLVIA JOY

Sylvia Joy! And I hadn't so much as looked at her petticoat for weeks!
But I would now. The violet eyes and the heavy chestnut hair rose up
in moralising vision. Yes! God knows, they were safe in my heart, but
petticoats were another matter. Sylvia Joy!

Well, did you ever? Well, I'm d----d! Sylvia Joy!

I should have been merely superhuman had I been able to control the
expression of surprise which convulsed my countenance at the sound of
that most significant name.

"The name seems familiar to you," said Rosalind, a little surprised and
a little eagerly; "do you know the lady?"

"Slightly," I prevaricated.

"How fortunate!" exclaimed Rosalind; "you'll be all the better able to
help me!"

"Yes," I said; "but since things have turned out so oddly, I may say
that our relations are of so extremely delicate a nature that I shall
have very carefully to think out what is best to be done. Meanwhile,
do you mind lending me that ring for a few hours?"

It was a large oblong opal set round with small diamonds,--a ring of
distinguished design you could hardly help noticing, especially on a
man's hand, for which it was too conspicuously dainty. I slipped it on
the little finger of my left hand, and, begging Rosalind to remain
where she was meanwhile, and to take no steps without consulting me, I
mysteriously, not to say officiously, departed.

I left the twelfth Golden-Haired Bar-maid not too late to stalk her
husband and her under-study to their hotel, where they evidently
proposed to dine. There was, therefore, nothing left for me but to
dine also. So I dined; and when the courses of my dining were ended, I
found myself in a mellow twilight at the Cafe du Ciel. And it was
about the hour of the sirens' singing. Presently the little golden
butterflies flitted once more through the twilight, and again the
woman's voice rose like a silver bird on the air.

As I have a partiality for her songs, I transcribe this Hymn of the
Daughters of Aphrodite, which you must try to imagine transfigured by
her voice and the sunset.

Queen Aphrodite's