h with the Hermitage; there are still three
bottles left. Worthy wine for a worthy occasion."

"But, my husband, you put me in a whirl," she cried. "I do not
comprehend."

"The turtle, my adored, the turtle!" cried the Doctor; and he pushed her
towards the kitchen, lantern and all.

Jean-Marie stood dumfoundered. He had pictured to himself a different
scene--a more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the
spot.

The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his legs, perhaps, and
now and then taking the wall with his shoulder; for it was long since he
had tasted absinthe, and he was even then reflecting that the absinthe
had been a misconception. Not that he regretted excess on such a
glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a
second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit. He had his wine
out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels,
some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with
historic earth. He was in and out of the kitchen, plying Anastasie with
vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the future, estimating their new
wealth at ever larger figures; and before they sat down to supper, the
lady's virtue had melted in the fire of his enthusiasm, her timidity had
disappeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly of the life at
Gretz; and as she took her place and helped the soup, her eyes shone with
the glitter of prospective diamonds.

All through the meal she and the Doctor made and unmade fairy plans. They
bobbed and bowed and pledged each other. Their faces ran over with
smiles; their eyes scattered sparkles, as they projected the Doctor's
political honours and the lady's drawing-room ovations.

"But you will not be a Red!" cried Anastasie.

"I am Left Centre to the core," replied the Doctor.

"Madame Gastein will present us--we shall find ourselves forgotten," said
the lady.

"Never," protested the Doctor. "Beauty and talent leave a mark."

"I have positively forgotten how to dress," she sighed.

"Darling, you make me blush," cried he. "Yours has been a tragic
marriage!"

"But your success--to see you appreciated, honoured, your name in all the
papers, that will be more than pleasure--it will be heaven!" she cried.

"And once a week," said the Doctor, archly scanning the syllables, "once
a week--one good little game of baccarat?"

"Only once a week?" she questioned, threatening him with a f