ngs of the little French teacher, is he? A
pretty fellow, truly! I'll get him his _conge_ if I have to make love to
her myself." Which latter conceit so amused me, that I had forgotten to
be indignant with Mr. Hurst before I reached my office and plunged into
the business of the day.

But I never made love to Miss Jorgensen. She was not the kind of person
even a flirtish man would choose to talk sentiment with, and I was
always far enough from being a gallant. So our affairs went on in just
the usual way at Mrs. Mason's for three or four months. Miss Jorgensen
and Mr. Quivey let fly their arrows of satire at each other; Miss
Flower, the assistant high-school teacher, enacted the amiable
go-between; our "promising young artist" was wisely neutral; Mrs. Mason
and myself were presumed to be old enough to be out of the reach of
boarding-house tiffs, and preserved a prudent unconsciousness. Mr. Hurst
continued to call twice a week in the evening, and Miss Jorgensen kept
on giving French lessons by day, and writing out translations for the
press at night. She was growing very thin, very pale, and cried a good
deal, as I had reason to know, for her room adjoined mine, and more than
a few times I had listened to her sobbing, until I felt almost forced to
interfere; but interfered I never had yet.

One foggy July evening, on coming home to dinner, I encountered Miss
Jorgensen in the hall. She appeared to be just going out, a circumstance
which surprised me somewhat, on account of the hour. I however opened
the door for her without comment, when by the fading daylight I
perceived that her face was deathly pale, and her black eyes burning.
She passed me without remark, and hurried off into the foggy twilight.
Nor did she appear at dinner; but came in about eight o'clock and went
directly to her own room. When Mrs. Mason knocked at her door to inquire
if she was not going to take some refreshments, the only reply that
could be elicited was, that she had a headache, and could not be induced
to eat or drink--spoken through the closed door.

"She's been having a row with that sunflower of hers," was Mr. Quivey's
comment, when he overheard Mrs. Mason's report to me, made in an
undertone. Truth to tell, Mr. Quivey, from associating so much with
theatrical people in the capacity of playwright, had come to be rather
stagy in his style at times. "By the way, he was not on escort duty this
morning. I saw her proceeding along Powell street