"You need not decry your talents. I am sure you will charm us," she said; and Van Zandt dropped indolently upon the music-stool. His long, white fingers moved softly among the keys, evoking a tender accompaniment to one of Tennyson's sweetest love songs: "'Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done. In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. "'There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near," And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear," And the lily whispers, "_I wait_."'" The man and the woman looked at each other behind his back. Remond wore a significant scowl; madame a jealous sneer. It faded into a smile as he whirled around on the music-stool and faced her with a look of feigned adoration. "Last night was so heavenly in the garden--let us go out again," he said, almost consumed by impatience. Time was going fast, and it lacked little more than an hour to midnight. He chafed at the thought that Carmontelle was waiting with the carriage, impatient, and wondering at the strange delay. "We will go into the garden," assented Mme. Lorraine. "Ah, you cold-looking Yankee, you can be as sentimental as a Southerner. Monsieur Remond, will you accompany us?" "Pardon; I will go home. I have no fancy for love among the roses," with a covert sneer. "Madame, monsieur, _bon soir_." He bowed and was gone. Van Zandt drew a long breath of dismay. What if he should stumble upon Carmontelle and the carriage waiting at the end of the square under cover of the night? It was impossible to follow. Mme. Lorraine's white hand clasping his arm, drew him out into the garden, with its sweet odors, its silence, and dew. His heart leaped with expectancy. "I shall find her here asleep among the flowers, forgetful of the dangers that encompass her young life." He declared to Mme. Lorraine that he did not want to miss a single beauty of the romantic old garden, and dragged her remorselessly all over its length and breadth. Perhaps she guessed his intent, but she made no sign. She was bright, amiable, animated, all that a woman can be who hopes to charm a man. He scarcely heeded her, so frantically was he looking everywhere for a crouching white form that he could not find. There came to him suddenly a horrified remembrance of her pathetic words: "There is still the river!" A bell somewhere in the distance chimed the half hour in silvery tones. Only thirty minutes more to midnight! With some incoherent excuse he tore himself away from her, and dashing wildly out into the street, ran against Pierre Carmontelle for the second time that night.