She swung into the room, lithely, eyes upon him, vivid lips smiling. Rounded arms were clasped behind lissome back. "And if I hadn't gone," he inquired, "you were about to go?" She nodded. "To another fool?" She shook her head, merrily. "Oh, no," she replied, red lips pursed. "To a man--this time." He shrunk a little. The madness was not far behind. "Well, squeeze him dry," he muttered. "Squeeze the honor and the manhood and the life and the soul out of him, won't you? And then Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam will laugh at him from their hole in hell. And I'll laugh at all of you; for I'll be safe from you all. So squeeze him dry, won't you, you Vampire!" Again she laughed, gaily. He was very amusing, at times--this thing that had been a man. She slid to the desk, seating herself upon it, swinging small, perfectly shod feet with slender silk-clad ankles. "So it's all over," she remarked, musingly. "Yet it was sweet while it lasted, wasn't it, My Fool?--sometimes." She tossed at him contemptuously a glowing crimson blossom which she ripped from the great mass at her rounded breast. She went on: "Those days on the Mediterranean, under the blue skies. And Venice, with the dim silence all about, and the soft night breezes whispering their strange secrets to us as we lay side by side under the rustling canopy-- very romantic, for dreamers--and we did dream--didn't we, My Fool?--at least, you did." She laughed again; again she cast at him a crimson blossom, maliciously, tantalizingly. "And Paris. That was good, too-- differently. The gay crowds on the Bois, and the races at Longchamps, and the little place in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs--and Saint Antoine, in the Norman hills--and the fuss they made over the newly-wedded couple! It was while we were there, if you will remember, Fool," she went on, in voice caressing but words that stung, "on the morning that we first had breakfast under the grape arbor, with its young green leaves and nodding promises of luscious yield, that there came the letter from your wife." She laughed, long and merrily. He cried, hoarsely: "Stop! Damn you, stop! You've tortured me enough!" "Amedee served us that morning," she continued, unmindful; "or was it Francois?--no, Amedee. He spilt the coffee upon the table cloth twice, in his anxiety lest he embarrass us. And when you kissed me," with a little ripple of mirth, "he looked the other way, covering his lips with his hand. Oh, admirable Amedee! ... The breeze was stirring that morning, Fool--do you remember?--and the dead leaves of yester-year fell about us-- so!" She plucked a great handful of crimson petals from her breast and cast them above her head. They fell about him, and about her. "And I dipped sugar in my coffee and fed it to you, and you let me read your wife's letter." Again she laughed. Through his clenched teeth came a muttered curse.