called the debatable land over which intuition held sway--Artois
hounded out his mood and turned upon himself.

"Don't listen to me," he said. "I am the professional analyst of life. As
I sit over a sentence, examining, selecting, rejecting, replacing its
words, so do I sit over the emotions of myself and others till I cease
really to live, and could almost find it in my head to try to prevent
them from living, too. Live, live--enter into the garden of paradise and
never mind what comes after."

"I could not do anything else," said Hermione. "It is unnatural to me to
look forward. The 'now' nearly always has complete possession of me."

"And I," said Artois, lightly, "am always trying to peer round the corner
to see what is coming. And you, Monsieur Delarey?"

"I!" said Delarey.

He had not expected to be addressed just then, and for a moment looked
confused.

"I don't know if I can say," he answered, at last. "But I think if the
present was happy I should try to live in that, and if it was sad I
should have a shot at looking forward to something better."

"That's one of the best philosophies I ever heard," said Hermione, "and
after my own heart. Long live the philosophy of Maurice Delarey!"

Delarey blushed with pleasure like a boy. Just then three men came in
smoking cigars. Hermione looked at her watch.

"Past eleven," she said. "I think I'd better go. Emile, will you drive
with me home?"

"I!" he said, with an unusual diffidence. "May I?"

He glanced at Delarey.

"I want to have a talk with you. Maurice quite understands. He knows you
go back to Paris to-morrow."

They all got up, and Delarey at once held out his hand to Artois.

"I am glad to have been allowed to meet Hermione's best friend," he said,
simply. "I know how much you are to her, and I hope you'll let me be a
friend, too, perhaps, some day."

He wrung Artois's hand warmly.

"Thank you, monsieur," replied Artois.

He strove hard to speak as cordially as Delarey.

Two or three minutes later Hermione and he were in a hansom driving down
Regent Street. The fog had lifted, and it was possible to see to right
and left of the greasy thoroughfare.

"Need we go straight back?" said Hermione. "Why not tell him to drive
down to the Embankment? It's quiet there at night, and open and fine--one
of the few fine things in dreary old London. And I want to have a last
talk with you, Emile."

Artois pushed up the little door in the roof with his