She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled shirt-front; I was so obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion. She went off into peals of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth, and clapping her hands. “What have I done to you? You’re a bottle of champagne; I’ve pulled the cork out. I’ll never get you all back.” I took her hands in mine, folding them together, and drew her to me. “You’ll never get any of me back. You’ve made me love you. That’s what you’ve done, you adorable witch-woman.” “Oh, la, la! Don’t talk like that.” “Can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. You’ve made me mad.” “Poor old Dannie! Horrid of me, wasn’t it?” A tap at the door; the maid entered, bringing in rolls and coffee. I started away from Fiesole, but she held me. “You can’t shock Marie; she’s hardened; she’s heard all about you, and some pretty bad things she’s heard.” Over her coffee she grew thoughtful. “What’s the matter?” “You are.” “Already?” “How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the morning?” “How d’you want me dressed?” “In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.” “Got ’em all at my hotel. I’ll slip back.” She slanted her eyes at me. “Slip back to London, perhaps! No, Dannie, I don’t trust you yet. I don’t intend to lose you.” She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed. Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered conversation reached me, scraps of nervously spoken French, and the opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards. When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy velvet, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish figure. The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur. The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match. Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty of a coquette. She looked oddly young and distinguished on this rare spring morning. There never was such a woman for arranging her temperament to suit her dress. Her hectic manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy as she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the effect. “So I meet with your approval?” Passing down the stairs, she hugged my arm impulsively--a trick which brought memories of Ruthita. “It’s awfully jolly to be loved--don’t you think so?” Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing. The chauffeur stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry at one another as to the identity of her strangely attired companion. We drew up at my hotel in the Rue St. Honoré.