hree-cornered shape on top of her head.

"There, my dear, there is the true French face, only you don't know it!
If I could take you to my home, you would see--well, you would not see
much beyond Henry and his eternal books, though they tell me he reads
no more. I'm thinking of an old portrait I resemble."

Miss Clairville now sat on the bed, having relinquished the work of
doing over the cloth skirt to her friend.

"Why are you keeping that red and black dress there, the theatre dress?
You will never need that, travelling!"

"No, I suppose not, only----"

Pauline eyed the dress. The family trait of acquisitiveness combined
with a love of hoarding was asserting itself, and she could scarcely
make up her mind to part with things when the time came. Besides, this
dress carried her back to meetings with Ringfield, and again she saw
the passionate admiration in his eyes as they talked in whispers on her
balcony.

"Oh--a fancy of mine! I look well in it. I wore it when Henry was
taken ill with the 'pic'."

With a loud shriek Miss Cordova dropped an iron on the floor.

"What is it now? _Quelle betise_! Stupid--I wasn't with him! I
meant--about that time. But if you want the dress, take it, take it!
_Mon Dieu_! what a state your nerves must be in!"

"I'm much better than when I came here," said Miss Cordova quickly.
"Say, Pauline,--did you know I thought of sending for the children?"

"Your children? To come here?"

"Yes. Now, Pauline, it sounds queer, I know, and worse than anything
I've ever done, yet--it isn't as bad as it sounds. But, but--well, I
may just as well out with it. Mr. Poussette has proposed!"

"To you?"

Miss Cordova stopped in her work. "Yes. He seems to be serious and I
like it here, like him too, so I guess we'll fix it up somehow. Of
course his wife's living, but she's not right in her head, so she don't
count."

"And your two husbands are alive, but as one drinks and the other was
married when he met you, _they_ don't count." Miss Clairville was
staring in front of her. "My dear girl--have you never heard of such a
thing as bigamy? You're talking nonsense, and you must not allow Mr.
Poussette to get you into trouble. You can't marry him, Sara!"

"Of course. I know that. But we are both willing to wait. Schenk
can't last long; he's drinking harder than ever from last accounts, and
Stanbury--well, perhaps I'd better stop short of saying anything about
English swells