“That is better,” and her face cleared. “And now, Pierre, what shall I do while you are conferring with my uncle?” “I think it will be best for you to remain in my room,” I answered, after a moment’s thought. “I will return there at once, so soon as I have seen him, and if I am unsuccessful we can set about securing that cottage I mentioned a moment ago.” “Very well,” she said sedately. “And I assure you that I shall not be idle. I saw some clothing in your room this morning that was oh, so badly in need of repair. I intend to make you a good sister, Pierre.” “A good sister!” I murmured, and bit my tongue to keep it still. “Yes, a good sister,” and then she looked at me, her face suddenly serious. “But there is one thing that must be remedied--I know so little about my brother. You must tell me more, Pierre.” “Ah, I should love to!” I cried. “And you really care to know?” [Illustration: Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration?] “All! All!” she nodded, and leaned towards me, her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. “Of my life I told you in a sentence--I have done nothing--nothing has happened to me. But with you, it is different--you are a man. You have lived always in the great world.” I looked at the curve of her dainty wrists, the little pink, interlocked fingers, the cheeks soft and delicate as peach-bloom, and then up into the eyes, dark, pure and quite fathomless. I pinched my leg beneath the table to make sure I was not dreaming. Was ever youth so fortunate? “We have an hour,” she concluded. “You are going to see my uncle at ten--it is not yet nine. So you will have time to tell me all--every word.” “Yes, every word,” I echoed. “But shall it be here, or----” “Oh, here! Here it is so cosey, so homelike, and we seem to have known each other for ages instead of merely since last night. Can it be that I have known you only since last night?” “No,” I said, with conviction. “We have known each other long and long, only fate held us apart. Now we can laugh at fate.” “Yes. But the story.” “Very well--the story.” “And, mind--no skipping!” she cried, shaking her finger at me warningly. “I must have every word.” Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration? CHAPTER IV IN WHICH I COME TO PARIS BUT it was not to tell that story I set pen to paper. Indeed, it were scarce worth the telling, save to sympathetic ears, such as were those tiny pink ones into which I poured it that morning. Yet, two words about it.