ver have a
new dress--?

Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerte--.

* * * * *

Solonge de Clerte is a philosopher--she has her own aims--but I do not
know them.

"Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her
eye--"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect
secretary if you are not satisfied."

I grew irritated--.

"I am quite satisfied"--we heard the noise of the typing machine from
beyond--these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown.

"Young, is she?" Madame de Clerte asked turning her glance in that
direction.

"I don't know and don't care--she types well"--.

"_Hein?_"

She saw that I was becoming enraged.--My dinners are good and the war is
not yet over--.

"We shall all be terribly interested--yes--when we read the result--."

"Probably"--.

Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband.

"Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed--.

And now I can turn to my journal again--Good God--the last pages have
all been about Miss Sharp--ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I
write ridiculous?--No--it is I who am ridiculous--I shall go for a
drive--!

* * * * *

God! what is the meaning of it all--!

I have been in hell----I came in from my drive very quietly, it was
early, a quarter to six, Miss Sharp goes at six--It was a horribly
chilly evening and Burton had lit a bright wood fire--and I suppose its
crackling prevented my hearing the sounds which were coming from the
next room for a minute. I sat down in my chair--.

What was that?--the _roucoulements_ of a dove?--No, a woman's voice
cooing foolish love words in French and English--and a child's treble
gurgling fondness back to her. It seemed as if my heart stopped
beating--as if every nerve in my spine quivered--a tremendous emotion of
I know not what convulsed me.--I lay and listened and suddenly I felt my
cheek wet with tears--then some shame, some anger shook me, and I
started to my feet, and hobbled to the door which was ajar--I opened it
wide--there was Miss Sharp with the _concierge's_ daughter's baby on her
lap fondling it--the creature may be six months old. Her horn spectacles
lay on the table. She looked up at me, the slightest flash of timidity
showing--but her eyes--Oh! God! the eyes of the Madonna--heavenly blue,
tender as an angel's--soft as a doe's--. I could have cried aloud with