But it was only an hour. The grey dawn crept into the sleepless room, and the glamour of the moonlight had gone. And there was a desperate struggle in the woman’s soul. The boy’s words rang in her ears. He was fond of her, devoted to her, would give up his life to her. He spoke sincerely. Why should she not take the words at a little above their face-value? No strong-natured woman of five-and-thirty, with Clementina’s fame and wealth and full great sympathy need fear rebuff from a generous lad who professes himself to be her devoted, devoted, devoted slave. All she has to do is to put up the banns. Whether ultimate bliss will be achieved is another matter. But to marry him out of hand is as easy as lying. It did not need Clementina’s acute intelligence for her to be fully aware of this. And another temptation crept over her pillow to her ear, peculiarly insidious. The boy would be free to pursue his beloved art without sordid cares. There would be no struggle and starvation and fringed hems to his trousers. A woman who really loves a man would sooner her heart were frayed than his trouser-hems. She rose and threw wide the shutters. The little Place Miremont looked ghostly in the white light, and the classic Bibliothèque, with its round-headed windows, more than ever a calm mausoleum of human wisdom. It is strange how coldly suggestive of death is the birth of day. Clementina crept back to bed and, tired out, fell asleep. The waiter bringing in the breakfast tray awakened her. On the _New York Herald_ which Tommy had gone to the railway station to procure, lay a dewy cluster of red and yellow roses; on a plate a pile of letters, the top one addressed in Etta Concannon’s great girlish scrawl. Why in the world should a bunch of parrot-tulips have flared before her eyes? They did. They had marked the beginning of it. The red and yellow roses marked the end. “_Attendez un moment_,” she said to the waiter, while she tore open the envelope and glanced through Etta’s unimportant letter. “Bring me a telegraph form.” He produced one from his pocket. If you ask a waiter in a good French provincial hotel for anything—a copy of Buckle’s History of Civilisation or a boot-jack—he will produce it from his pocket. He also handed her a pencil. This she bit musingly for a few seconds. Then she scribbled hastily on the telegraph form: “_Join me at once. Book straight through to Lyons. Wire train. Will meet you at station. Promise you_”—Her lips twisted into a wry smile as the word she sought entered her head—“_heavenly time. My guest of course. Clementina. Hôtel du Nord, Vienne._” “By the way, _garçon_,” she said, handing him the telegram, “why is this called the Hôtel du Nord?” “_Parceque, Madame, c’est ici, à Vienne, que commence le Midi_,” replied the waiter. He bowed himself out. A courtier of Versailles at the levée of the Pompadour could not have made his speech and exit with better grace.