! have you any
intention of getting up this morning?"

Arithelli yawned again. "I suppose I must go round and present myself
to the Manager. I'm to rehearse a fortnight before I make my
appearance in public."

"Then I had better come with you," Emile replied with decision. "As I
told you yesterday, I know the Manager fairly well."

An hour later they walked together through the streets on their way to
the Hippodrome. Emile was a bad advertisement for the secrecy of his
profession, for he looked a typical desperado. His velvet coat had the
air of having been slept in for weeks, and had certainly never been on
terms of acquaintanceship with a brush; and, besides the usual
Anarchist badge, a red tie, a blood red carnation flamed defiance in
his buttonhole.

Under a battered sombrero he scowled upon the world; a dark skin,
fierce moustache, and arching black eyebrows over hard, grey eyes.

There are few people who look their parts in life, but Emile might
without addition or alteration, have been transferred to the stage as
the typical villain of a melodrama.

Arithelli had arrayed herself in the cornflower blue frock, which she
carried with a negligent ease, and she still wore the Panama hat with
the flowing veil. As a matter of fact it was the only piece of
headgear she possessed; for she had been reckless over dresses and
boots in Paris and had found herself drawn up with a jerk in the midst
of her purchases by her small stock of money coming to an abrupt end.

Of her carriage and general deportment, which were noticeably good even
among Spanish women, Emile approved. The crude blue of her dress, the
tags and ends of tinselled braid set his teeth on edge. In his "Count
Poleski" days he had known the quiet and exquisite taste of the
_mondaines_ of Vienna and St. Petersburg, and like most men he
preferred dark clothes in the street. Later on he proposed to himself
the pleasure of supervising her wardrobe, except her boots, which met
with his fullest approbation.

He noticed that she did not talk much but observed in silence. He felt
that nothing escaped those heavy-lidded, curious eyes. "Is everything
dirty in Spain?" she said at last.

"How fussy you are about dirt!" retorted Emile disagreeably.

"Yes. My mother is a Jewess, you know. I expect we notice these
things more than the dirty Gentiles."

Her calm assertion of the superior cleanliness of the tribe of Israel,
amused Emile, who had been a