She feverishly clawed off the little bag she wore on her wrist, and thrust it into his hand. Though less obviously so, the man was also nervous. He clutched up his valises, and put them down; then glanced uneasily up and down the street’s dim length. “I’ll go alone and buy mine,” he said, “and put the bags in the compartment. I’ll be gone a few moments. You wait here, and don’t move till I come for you.” “Oh, of course, not. I shouldn’t dare. And please hurry. I don’t see how I will ever be able to get in. At any moment I might meet some one I know. Think of what that would be! I had no idea this was going to be so terrible. It’s not easy to do wrong.” “Do wrong?” echoed the man, in a tone of tender, though somewhat hurried, reproof. “Don’t say such foolish things. We have a right to happiness. Oh--er--haven’t you got a veil you could put on when you enter the Gare? It would be better.” A bell rang within the building, and the woman gave a suppressed shriek. “Oh, go--go!” she cried wildly. “Don’t stop to talk now. That may be the train. What would happen if we missed it?” The bell struck him into action, too, and he hurried off, swaying between the two heavy valises. Celia, from her station near the wall, was too smitten by the sudden revelation before her to have will to move. So she was eloping, this baby-cheeked creature, whose kindly impulse had prompted her to buy the Clytie from the frost-nipped boy on the bridge. Without any natural predisposition in that direction, she was going the way of the Devil, and even at this stage stood aghast, bemused, and terrified at what she had done. The Frenchwoman moved forward into the light, and stood for a moment watching her departing lover. Then she began to send fearful glances up and down the street. Celia thought she could hear her breathing, and the thumping of her heart. It was not hard to see how she had been cajoled and overruled. Suddenly, from the fullness of her heart her mouth spoke: “Oh, I want to go home.” She spoke aloud, making at the same moment a gesture of clasping her hands. Her face took on an expression as near to resolution as possible. Its flower-soft curves stiffened. Her lover was gone, and her hypnotized will was struggling to life. She turned desperately toward the line of carriages and beckoned to the _cocher_ of the nearest one, then dropped the raised hand to her wrist, where the bag had hung. It encountered nothing, and in a moment she remembered that her purse was with the man. “Good God!” she said, and this time the violent Gallic ejaculation sounded appropriate. As the carriage rattled up, Celia came out of the shadow. She spoke excellent French, and the Parisienne might have thought her a fellow-countrywoman. “What is the matter?” she said, quietly. “Do you feel sick?” “No--no--but my money is gone. I gave my purse to my friend, and now I want to go back.” “But he’ll be here again in a minute.”