Then she laid her hand on the wrist of Kora. "Come with me," she said, softly, in English, and the girl with one glance of tear-wet eyes, obeyed. The Marquise opened the door beside her, a few steps further and another door led into an ante-room belonging to a portion of the building closed for repairs. "Why do you weep?" she asked briefly, but the kindly clasp of her wrist told that the questioner was not without sympathy, and the girl strove to compose herself while staring at the other in amazement. "You--I have seen you--I remember you," she said, wonderingly, "the Marquise de Caron!" "Yes;" the face of the Marquise flushed, "and you are the dancer--Kora. Why did you weep at their words?" "Since you know who I am, Madame, I need not hesitate to tell you more," she said, though she did hesitate, and looked up, deprecatingly, to the Marquise, who stood a few paces away leaning against the window. There was only one chair in the room. Kora perceived for the first time that it had been given to her while the Marquise stood. She arose to her feet, and with a deference that lent a subtile grace to her expression, offered it to her questioner. "No; resume your seat;" the command was a trifle imperious, but it was softened the next instant by the smile with which she said: "A dear old lady taught me that to the burdened horse we should always give the right of way. We must make easier the way of those who bear sorrows. You have the sorrow today--what is it?" "I am not sure that you will understand, Madame," and the girl's velvety black eyes lifted and then sought the floor again. "But you, perhaps, heard what they said out there, and the man I--I--well, he was there." The lips of the Marquise grew a trifle rigid, but Kora was too much engaged with her own emotion to perceive it. "I suppose I shouldn't speak of him to a--a lady who can't understand people who live in a different sort of world. But you mean to be kind, and I suppose have some reason for asking?" and she glanced at the lady in the window. "So--" The Marquise looked at her carefully; yes, the girl was undeniably handsome; a medium sized, well-turned figure, small hands and feet, graceful in movement, velvety oriental eyes, and the deep cream complexion over which the artists had raved. She had the manner of one well trained, but was strangely diffident before this lady of the other world. The Marquise drew a deep breath as she realized how attractive she could be to a man who cared. "You are a fool," she said, harshly, "to care for a man who speaks so of your people." "Oh, Madame!" and the graceful form drooped helplessly. "I knew you could never understand. But if folks only loved where it was wise to love, all the trouble of the world would be ended." The hand of the Marquise went to her throat for an instant.