“I know it—I’m foolish,” she faltered. “I shall not always be a student. I shall not always be in Paris, dear Yvonne.” She leaned closer to him. “I must go back to America someday.” “And—and marry?” she whispered, chokingly. “No—not to marry,” he said, “but it is my home.” “I—I know it, Rex, but don’t let us think of it. Rex,” she said, some moments after, “are you like all students?” “How do you mean?” “Have you ever loved—before—a girl, here in Paris—like me?” “There are none—like you.” “Answer me, Rex.” “No, I never have,” he said, truthfully. Presently he added, “And you, Yvonne?” She put her warm little hand across his mouth. “Don’t ask,” she murmured. “But I do!” he cried, struggling to see her eyes, “won’t you tell me?” She hid her face tight against his breast. “You know I have; that is why I am alone here, in Paris.” “You loved him?” “Yes—not as I love you.” Presently she raised her eyes to his. “Shall I tell you all? I am like so many—so many others. When you know their story, you know mine.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Don’t tell me,” he said. But she went on. “I was only seventeen—I am nineteen now. He was an officer at—at Chartres, where we lived. He took me to Paris.” “And left you.” “He died of the fever in Tonquin.” “When?” “Three weeks ago.” “And you heard?” “Tonight.” “Then he did leave you.” “Don’t, Rex—he never loved me, and I—I never really loved him. I found that out.” “When did you find it out?” “One day—you know when—in a—a cab.” “Dear Yvonne,” he whispered, “can’t you go back to—to your family?” “No, Rex.” “Never?” “I don’t wish to, now. No, don’t ask me why! I can’t tell you. I am like all the rest—all the rest. The Paris fever is only cured by death. Don’t ask me, Rex; I am content—indeed I am.” Suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused Gethryn to spring hurriedly to his feet. “Rex!” It was Braith’s voice. “What!” cried Gethryn, hoarsely. There was a pause. “Aren’t you going to let me in?” “I can’t, old man; I—I’m not just up for company tonight,” stammered Gethryn. “Company be damned—are you ill?” “No.” There was a silence. “I’m sorry,” began Gethryn, but was cut short by a gruff: “All right; good night!” and Braith went away. Yvonne looked inquiringly at him. “It was nothing,” he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at her feet, crying, “Oh, Yvonne—Yvonne!” Outside the storm raged furiously. Presently she whispered, “Rex, shall I light the candle? It is midnight.” “Yes,” he said. She slipped away, and after searching for some time, cried, “the matches are all gone, but here is a piece of paper—a letter; do you want it? I can light it over the lamp.” She held up an envelope to him. “I can light it over the lamp,” she repeated. “What is the address?” “It is very long; I can’t read it all, only ‘Florence, Italy.’” “Burn it,” he said, in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him.