Coming in after the older men, Rex found no place left in the little, crowded room, excepting one at the table close beside Yvonne. Ruth was on the other side. He went and took the place, self-possessed and smiling. Yvonne made a slight motion as if to rise and escape. Only Rex saw it. Yes, one more: Ruth saw it. “Mademoiselle has studied seriously since I had the honor—” “Oui, Monsieur.” Her faint voice and timid look were more than Ruth could bear. She leaned forward so as to shield the girl as much as possible, and entered into the lively talk at the other end of the table. Rex spoke again: “Mademoiselle is quite strong, I trust—the stage—Sugar? Allow me!—As I was saying, the stage is a calling which requires a good constitution.” No answer. “But pardon. If you are not strong, how can you expect to succeed in your career?” persisted Rex. His eyes rested on one frail wrist in its black sleeve. The sight filled him with anger. “I would make my debut if I knew it would kill me.” She spoke at last, low but clearly. “But why? Mon Dieu!” “Madame has set her heart on it. She thinks I shall do her credit. She has been good to me, so good!” The sad voice fainted and sank away. “One is good to one’s pupils when they are going to bring one fame,” said Rex bitterly. “Madame took me when she did not know I had a voice—when she thought I was dying—when I was homeless—two years ago.” “What do you mean?” said Rex sternly, sinking his voice below the pitch of the general conversation. “What did you tell me in your letter? _Homeless!_” “I never wrote you any letter.” Yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time. “You did not write that you had found a—a home which you preferred to—to—any you had ever had? And that it would be useless to—to offer you any other?” “I never wrote. I was very ill and could not. Afterward I went to—you. You were gone.” Her low voice was heartbreaking to hear. “When?” Rex could hardly utter a word. “In June, as soon as I left the hospital.” “The hospital? And your mother?” “She was dead. I did not see her. Then I was very ill, a long time. As soon as I could, I went to Paris.” “To me?” “Yes.” “And the letter?” “Ah!” cried Yvonne with a shudder. “It must have been my sister who did that!” The room was turning round. A hundred lights were swaying about in a crowd of heads. Rex laid his hand heavily on the table to steady himself. With a strong effort at self-control he had reduced the number of lights to two and got the people back in their places when, with a little burst of French exclamations and laughter, everyone turned to Yvonne, and Ruth, bending over her, took both her hands. The next moment Monsieur Bordier was leading her to the piano. A soft chord, other chords, deep and sweet, and then the dear voice: Oui c’est un rêve, Un rêve doux d’amour, La nuit lui prête son mystére