paused on the wet pavement to open her umbrella, and Peter had a glimpse of the wide red lips and small black beard of an unpleasant-looking French youth, who seemed to loiter behind her with a certain air of expectancy. It was impossible to connect his commonplace vulgarity of aspect with Bohemian friendships or with Hilda, and, indeed, she gave him a mere nod, not looking at him at all, and came walking up the street, her skirt raised in one hand, showing slim feet and ankles. Odd, as he contemplated her advance, was reminded of the light poise of a Jean Goujon nymph. Her umbrella, lowered against the wind, hid him from her. "Well, Hilda," he said amicably, when she was almost beside him--the umbrella tilted back over her shoulder, and the rain fell on her startled face--"Here I am." Her stare of utmost amazement was very amusing, but she looked white and tired. "I must get a _fiacre_, I haven't your taste for plodding through rain and mud, and you'll be kind enough to forgo the enjoyment for one day, won't you?" Her stupefaction at last resolved itself into one word: "Well!" she exclaimed with emphasis, and then she laughed outright. "By Jove, child, you look done up. I'm glad you're not angry, though. You wouldn't laugh if you were angry, would you? Here is a _fiacre_." He hailed the approaching vehicle; the _cocher's_ hat and cape, the roof of the cab, the horse's waterproof covering glistened with rain in the dying light. "You are very, very kind," Hilda said, rather gravely now, as they stood side by side on the curb while the _fiacre_ rattled up to them. "I always intend to be kind, Hilda, if you will let me. Jump in." He followed her, slamming the door with relief, and depositing the two dripping umbrellas in a corner. "You must be drenched," said Hilda solemnly. "Imitation is the sincerest flattery, I believe; your fondness for drenchings inspired me. You are not one bit angry, then? You see I ask you no questions." "Angry? It was too good of you!" Her voice was still meditative. "I am much relieved that you should say so. I was only conscious of guilt." "How long did you wait?" "About an hour." "And it was _pouring_!" "Oh no, not pouring. I have suffered far worse drenchings for far less pleasure. One has no umbrella in Scotland on the moors." "One has, at least, the scenery." Hilda smiled. "Yes; the Rue d'Assas isn't particularly inspiring. I don't disclaim honor; that corner was most wearing. Only the irritation of waiting for my mysterious little truant kept me from finding it dreary." "Don't call me mysterious, please." "But you are mysterious, Hilda; very. However, I promised myself, and I promise you, to say no more about it, to ask no questions."