"I was to be content with scraps. To go away and forget you, until chance or a whim of yours should bring us together again." "Did you want so much more?" she asked, with a swift maddening glance at him. He fell on his knees before her couch. "Oh! I love you!" he said. "Forgive me if I am unreasonable or foolish. I can't help it. You came so unexpectedly, so wonderfully! And you see I lost my head as well as my heart. I have so little to offer you--and I want so much." Her hands rested for a moment caressingly upon his shoulders. A whole world of wonderful things was shining out of her eyes. It was only her lips that were cruel. "My dear boy," she said, "you want what I may not give. I am very, very sorry. I think there must have been some sorcery in the air that night, the spell of the roses must have crept into my blood. I am sorry for what I did. I am very sorry that I did not leave you alone." He rose heavily to his feet. His face was grey with suffering. "I ought to have known," he said. "I think that I did know." "All the same," she continued, laying her hand upon his arm, "I think that you are a rank extremist." He shook his head. "I don't understand," he said. "Shall I teach you?" she whispered. He flung her hand away. "No!" he said savagely. She sighed. "I am afraid you had better go away," she said. As he closed the door he fancied that he heard a sob. But it might have been only fancy. CHAPTER III MONSIEUR S'AMUSE "To-night," young Davenant declared, with something which was suspiciously like a yawn, "I really think that we must chuck it just a little earlier. Shall we say that we leave here at two, and get back to the hotel?" Mademoiselle Rosine pouted, but said nothing. The young lady from America tried to take Macheson's hand. "Yes!" she murmured. "Do let's! I'm dead tired." She whispered something in Macheson's ear which he affected not to hear. He leaned back in his cushioned seat and laughed. "What, go home without seeing François!" he exclaimed. "He's keeping the corner table for us, and we're all going to dance the Maxixe with the little Russian girl." "We could telephone," Davenant suggested. "Do you know that we haven't been to bed before six one morning since we arrived in Paris?" "Well, isn't that what we came for?" Macheson exclaimed. "We can go to bed at half-past twelve in London. Maître d'hôtel, the wine! My friends are getting sleepy. What's become of the music? Tell our friend there--ah! Monsieur Henri!" He beckoned to the leader of the orchestra, who came up bowing, with his violin under his arm. "Monsieur Henri, my friends are '_triste_,'" he explained. "They say there is no music here, no life. They speak of going home to bed. Look at mademoiselle here! She yawns! We did not come to Paris to yawn. Something of the liveliest. You understand? Perhaps mademoiselle there will dance." "Parfaitement, monsieur."