“Well, you’re going to get it now,” said Braith; “the band are taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.” He glanced at Gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program. The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission. They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton. A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel. Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes. Oui c’est un rêve; Un rêve doux d’amour— The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions. Suddenly the little _Mirror_ man’s eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped Braith’s arm; his fingers were like iron. “What the deuce!” began Braith, but, following the other’s eyes, he became silent and stern. “Talk of the devil—do you see him—Pick?” “I see,” growled Braith. “And—and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet—” Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly moving toward them in deep conversation. “No,” he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak again. Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on the marble top. “I’d like,” cried Bulfinch, “to take it out of his hide!” “Hello!” said Clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation, “whose hide are you going to tan?” “Nobody’s,” said Braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had now almost reached their group. Clifford’s start had roused Gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up; at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and Rex gazed full into the eyes of Yvonne. Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn’s face lost all its color. “Pretty girl,” drawled Clifford, “but what a dirty little beggar she lugs about with her.”