eks. He
had met her first in Rome, and fancied her an Italian. Delaven had
asked if she were not English; and now in the heart of France she
appeared to him entirely Parisian.

A chameleon-like wife might have her disadvantages, he thought, as he
walked away after the talk with his god-mother; yet she would not be
so apt as others to bore one with sameness. At nineteen she was
charming; at twenty-five she would be magnificent.

The streets were alive that morning with patriotic groups discussing
the victory of the French troops at Magenta. The first telegrams were
posted and crowds were gathered about them.

Dumaresque passed through them with an unusually preoccupied air. Then
a tall man, leaning against a pillar and viewing the crowd, bowed to
him in such a way as to arrest his attention. It was the American, of
the smiling, half sleepy eyes, and the firm mouth. The combination
appealed to Dumaresque as an artist; also the shape of the head, it
was exceedingly good, strong; even his lounging attitude had the grace
suggestive of strength. He remembered seeing somewhere the head of a
young lion painted with just those half closed, shadowy eyes.
Lieutenant McVeigh was regarding him with something akin to their
watchfulness, the same slow gaze travelling from the feet to the head
as they approached each other; it was deliberate as the measuring of
an adversary, and its finale was a smile.

"Glad to see a man," he remarked. "I have been listening to the
jabbering and screeches of the crowd until they seem only manikins."

Dumaresque laughed. "You come by way of England, I believe; do you
prefer the various dialects of that land of fog?"

"No, I do not; have a cigar?" Dumaresque accepted the offer. McVeigh
himself lighted one and continued:

"Their stuffiness lacks the picturesque qualities possessed by even
the poorest of France, and then they bore one with their wranglings
for six-pences, from Parliament down to peasant. They are always at it
in Brittania the gem of the ocean, wrangling over six-pences, and
half-pennies and candle ends."

"You are finding flaws in the people who call you cousin," remarked
the artist.

"Yes, I know they do," said the other, between puffs. "But I can't
imagine a real American helping them in their claims for relationship.
Our history gives us no cause for such kindly remembrances."

"Unless on the principle that one has a kindly regard for a man after
fighting with him and not