nd the lunch that was to be my _chef
d'oeuvre_!" There was keen disappointment in her voice. "But perhaps
mademoiselle will be coming to dine this evening?"

"No, nor this evening. Mademoiselle is very busy with her work. She is
to leave Nimes to-morrow."

"And monsieur also?" There was tragedy in her tone. It must mean that
monsieur would give up his rooms to follow the young lady.

"I shall probably remain here for a month or more," answered Riviere
somewhat stiffly: and then to salve her feelings: "You are making me
wonderfully comfortable. I shall always associate the Midi with Mme
Giras."

"_Monsieur est bien amiable!_" replied the little old lady, much
pleased. She hurried off to the kitchen to see that Marie was making no
error of judgment in the mixing of the sauces.

Riviere felt glad that the acquaintanceship with Elaine had progressed
no further. It was decidedly for the best that it had ended where it
had. Both of them had their life-work to call for all their energies.
Further companionship would only divert them from it. In his innermost
being he knew that, and now he acknowledged it frankly to himself. From
every point of view, it was best that their acquaintanceship should end.

But late that afternoon a brief note came from Elaine. "Dear Mr
Riviere," it said, "I have considered your warning. If you will be so
kind as to accompany me this evening while I am sketching the Druids'
Tower, I shall be glad. I propose to leave the hotel about eight."

Riviere was at her hotel punctually at eight. He helped her into her
warm travelling cloak, and taking up her campstool and easel they walked
briskly, with healthy, swinging strides, out by the avenue of plane
trees bordering the Roman aqueduct.

They ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to
the ruined tower which was grey with age when Roman legions first swept
in triumph over the country of the barbarians of Gaul. A chill wind set
the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. The windowless
tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind
with years. The moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to
disturb its dreaming.

It was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. In
the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen
stones--unkempt like a ragged tramp--but in the moonlight there was a
glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. Elaine was right to make he