With a last effort at resistance he was beginning to frame an excuse, when, in the very midst of his speech, Clementina said, decisively, speaking to the boy: “I am coming. Show me the way,” and the poor old father was scarcely surprised when he found the messenger ignoring him entirely, and obeying the words of the child. She had already started after him, and Clem could only follow them, in feeble wretchedness and disappointment. The boy led the way through various dusty and dimly-lighted passages, and presently paused before a door at which he rapped sharply, and then walked away. A voice said: “Come in!” Clementina turned the knob, and entered, her father following, and taking care to close the door behind him. Instead of finding the popular dancer flung in picturesque abandonment on the lounge, drinking iced champagne or smoking a cigarette (which was what Rhodes expected) he saw her seated before her dressing-table, on which were scattered a disorderly collection of wigs, masks, powder-puffs, curling-irons, rouge-pots, and various other paraphernalia of her profession. Her elbows were crushing some artificial flowers, as she sat with her chin in her hands and her gaze fixed solemnly upon her own reflection in the mirror. As she turned toward them, the child ran forward and flung her arms around the dancer’s bare neck, lifting her face to be kissed. The Tarara gave a little cry, and sprang to her feet, and then, the next instant, crouched down again, and made a motion as if she would cover, with her short tarletan skirts, the exposure of plump legs cased in thin flesh-colored tights. What had come over her? Those shapely limbs were usually her pride. When had she felt any sense of modesty about them before? But the child was not looking at them. Neither did she look at the false hair, the rouge, the powder, the painted eyebrows, and _bistré_ lids. She had clasped her arms around the dancer’s neck again, and was looking straight into her eyes. The feeling which came to the Tarara as she met that look was that one creature saw her soul, at last. “I love you. You are kind, and sweet, and good,” the child said, softly, still regarding her with that deep, penetrating gaze, and with intense conviction in her tone. The Tarara’s painted face began to quiver, and great tear-drops brimmed her eyes, as she caught the little creature to her, crushing to irremediable flatness her diaphanous tarletan skirts. She strained the small creature to her breast a moment, and then seated her on her lap. She had caught up a rich plush cape from a chair, and had thrown it over the tights and dancing-shoes. Rhodes, meanwhile, stood looking on, in a state of stupefaction. They had both forgotten him, as they clung to each other, with close kisses and embraces.