“You mean well!” he said tremulously; “You know--as Sergius does, that I am poor,--often starving--often drunk--but you know also that there is something _here_!”--and he touched his forehead meaningly. “But to be the ‘fashion’! Bah! I do not belong to the Trade-ocracy! Nobody becomes the ‘fashion’ nowadays unless they have cheated their neighbours by short weight and falsified accounts! Good-night! You might be the King from your looks;--but you have something better than kingship--Heart! Good-night, Pequita! You danced well! Good-night, Lotys! You spoke well! Everyone does everything well, except poor Zouche!” Pequita ran up to him. “Good-night, dear Paul!” He stooped and kissed her gently. “Good-night, little one! If ever you show your twinkling feet at the Opera, _you_ will be the ‘fashion’--and will you remember Paul then?” “Always--always!” said Pequita tenderly; “Father and Lotys and I will always love you!” Zouche gave a short laugh. “Always love me! Me! Well!--what strange things children will say, not knowing in the least what they mean!” He gave a vague salute to the entire company, and walked out of the tavern with drooping head. Others followed him,--every man in going, shook hands with Lotys and Sergius Thord,--the lamps were extinguished, and the landlord standing in the porch of his tavern watched them all file out, and bade them all a cordial farewell. Pequita’s home was with her father in the house where Sergius Thord dwelt, and Lotys kissing her tenderly good-night, left her to Thord’s care. “And who will see you home, Lotys?” enquired Thord. “May I for once have that honour?” asked Pasquin Leroy. His two companions stared in undisguised amazement, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Lotys spoke. “You may!” she said simply. There was another silence while she put on her hat, and wrapped herself in her long dark cloak. Then Thord took Pequita by the hand. “Good-night, Lotys!” “Good-night, Sergius!” Leroy turned to his two friends and spoke to them in a low tone. “Go your ways!” he said peremptorily; “I will join you later!” Vain were their alarmed looks of remonstrance; and in another moment all the party had separated, and only Max Graub and Axel Regor remained on the pavement outside the tavern, disconsolately watching two figures disappearing in the semi-shadowed moonlight--Pasquin Leroy and Lotys--walking closely side by side. “Was there ever such a drama as this?” muttered Graub, “He may lose his life at any moment!” “If he does,” responded Regor, “It will not be our fault. We do our best to guard him from the consequence of one folly,--and he straightway runs into another! There is no help for it; we have sworn to obey him, and we must keep our oath!”