Knowing that sooner or later they would find her there, she halted, examining some choice bits of color near the door. A daintily dressed woman, who looked strangely familiar, was standing near with apparently the same intent. But she stood so still; and the poise of her head betrayed that she was listening to something. The something was a group of men back of them, where the black and white sketches were on exhibition. The corridor was not wide, and their conversation was in English and not difficult to understand if one gave attention. The Marquise noted that Dumaresque was among them, and they stood before his donation of sketches, of which the principal one was a little study of the octoroon dancer, Kora. Then in a flash she understood who the person was who listened. She was the original of the picture, drawn there no doubt by a sort of vanity to hear the artistic praise, or personal comment. But a swift glance showed her it had been a mistake; the dark brows were frowning, the full lip was bitten nervously, and the small ungloved hand was clenched. The men were laughing carelessly over some argument, not noticing that they had a listener; the people moving along the corridor, single and in groups, hid the two who remained stationary, and whose backs were towards them. It was most embarrassing, and the Marquise was about to move away when she heard a voice there was no mistaking--the voice she had not been able to forget. "No, I don't agree with you;" he was saying, "and you would not find half so much to admire in the work if the subject were some old plantation mammy equally well painted. Come over and see them where they grow. After that you will not be making celebrities of them." "If they grow many like that I am most willing, Monsieur." "I, too. When do we start? I can fancy no land so well worth a visit but that of Mohammed." The first speaker uttered an exclamation of annoyance, but the others laughed. "Oh, we have seen other men of your land here," remarked Dumaresque. "They are not all so discreet as yourself. We have learned that they do not usually build high walls between themselves and pretty slaves." "You are right," agreed the American. "Sorry I can't contradict you. But these gorgeous Koras and Phrynes remind me of a wild blossom in our country; it is exquisite in form, beautiful to the eye, but poison if touched to the lips. It is called the yellow jasmine." "No doubt you are right," remarked one of the men as Kora dropped her veil over her face. "You are at all events poetical." "And the reason of their depravity?" "The fact that they are the outgrowth of the worst passions of both races--at least so I have heard it said by men who make more of a study of such questions than I." A party of people moved between the two women and the speakers. The Marquise heard Kora draw a sobbing breath. She hesitated an instant, her own eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. _He_ to sit in judgment on others--he!