Whilst on the outskirts of a display of bare shoulders the younger men at the doorway were suffocating in the stifling, scented air, we older guests, not without grumbling, were keeping ourselves cool in a little _salon_ from which we could see nothing, and to which the voice of Mademoiselle Réjane only penetrated like the slightly metallic sound of a dragon-fly’s flight. From time to time we could hear the laughter and applause burst forth in the sweltering room, and we were disposed to extend a mild tolerance to the entertainment we did not share. We were exchanging fairly amusing trivialities, when one of the company, a genial deputy, Monsieur B——, remarked— “Did you know that Wood was here?” At this statement each in turn exclaimed— “Wood? Leslie Wood? It’s impossible. It is ten years since he was seen in Paris. Nobody knows what’s become of him.” “The story goes that he has established a black republic on the shores of the Victoria Nyanza.” “What a tale! You know, of course, that he is fabulously wealthy, and that he is a past master in achieving the impossible. Well, he is living in Ceylon, in a fairy palace, in the midst of enchanted gardens, where the bayadères never cease dancing night and day.” “How can any one believe such balderdash? The truth is, that Leslie Wood has gone off with a Bible and a carbine to convert the Zulus.” Monsieur B—— interrupted in an undertone— “There he is; there, do you see?” And he drew our attention by a slight movement of the head and eyes to a man leaning against the doorway, dominating by his lofty stature the heads of the crowd huddled in front of him. He seemed engrossed in the performance. That athletic carriage, the ruddy face with the white whiskers, the penetrating eyes and calm gaze, they could belong to no one else but Leslie Wood. Recalling the inimitable letters which for ten years he contributed to the _World_, I said to Monsieur B—— “That man is the foremost journalist of our time.” “You may possibly be right,” replied B——. “At any rate, I am ready to assert that for twenty years past no one has known Europe as thoroughly as Leslie Wood.” Baron Moïse, who was following our talk, shook his head. “You don’t know the real Wood. I know him myself, though. He was before all things a financier. He had a better grasp of the money market than any one I know. What are you laughing at, Princess?” Lolling expansively on the sofa, and in gloomy depression at being unable to smoke a cigarette, the Princess Zévorine had smiled. “You neither of you understand Mr. Wood—neither of you,” she said. “He was always a mystic and a lover, never anything else.” “I can’t agree to that,” replied Baron Moïse. “But I should be very glad to know where this devil of a fellow has been spending the best ten years of his life.” “And at what period do you place those best ten years of life?”