“No,” he replied, “I only saw you were a woman and in danger of your life.” The brightness fell from her face. “Then it was all the same to you who I was.” He nodded. “Yes—any woman, you know.” “Old and dirty and ugly?” His hand slipped from hers. “And a woman—yes.” She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “Then I wish it had been someone else.” “So do I, for your sake,” he answered gravely. She glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him: “Forgive me; I would not change places with a queen.” “Nor I with any man!” he cried gayly. “Am I not Paris?” “And I?” “You are Hélène,” he said, laughing. “Let me see—Paris and Hélène would not have changed—” She interrupted him impatiently. “Words! you do not mean them. Nor do I, either,” she added, hastily. After that neither spoke for a while. Gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. Presently she glanced up. “Paris, do you want to smoke?” “You don’t think I would smoke in this dainty nest?” “Please do, I like it. We are—we will be such very good friends. There are matches on that table in the silver box.” He shook his head, laughing. “You are too indulgent.” “I am never indulgent, excepting to myself. But I have caprices and I generally die when they are not indulged. This is one. Please smoke.” “Oh, in that case, with Hélène’s permission.” She laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. There was another long pause, then she began again: “Paris, you speak French very well.” He came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet. “Do I, Hélène?” “Yes—but you sing it divinely.” Gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, “Yes ’tis a dream—a dream of love,” he repeated, but stopped. Yvonne’s temples and throat were crimson. “Please open the window,” she cried, “it’s so warm here.” “Hélène, I think you are blushing,” said he, mischievously. She turned her head away from him. He rose and opened the window, leaning out a moment; his heart was beating violently. Presently he returned. “It’s one o’clock.” No answer. “Hélène, it’s one o’clock in the morning.” “Are you tired?” she murmured. “No.” “Nor I—don’t go.” “But it’s one o’clock.” “Don’t go yet.” He sank down irresolutely on the rug again. “I ought to go,” he murmured. “Are we to remain friends?” “That is for Hélène to say.” “And Hélène will leave it to Homer!” “To whom?” said Gethryn. “Monsieur Homer,” said the girl, faintly. “But that was a tragedy.” “But they were friends.” “In a way. Yes, in a way.” Gethryn tried to return to a light tone. “They fell in love, I believe.” No answer. “Very well,” said Gethryn, still trying to joke, “I will carry you off in a boat, then.” “To Troy—when?” “No, to Meudon, when you are well. Do you like the country?” “I love it,” she said.