Paris, her day's work done, was turning lightly, with her entrancing smile, to the pursuit of friendship, adventure, and love. All through the scented streets eyes sought eyes, voices rose in happy laughter or drooped to soft allurement. Stefan thrilled to the magic in the air. He, too, was seeking his adventure. The taxi drew up in the courtyard of an apartment house. Giving his name, Stefan entered a lift and was carried up one floor. A white door opened, and the small Yo San, with a salutation, took his hat, and lifted a curtain. He was in a long, low room, yellow with candlelight. Facing him, open French windows giving upon a balcony showed the purpling dusk above the river and the black shapes of trees. Lights trickled their reflection in the water, the first stars shone, the scent of flowers was heavy in the air. All this he saw; then a curtain moved, and a slim form appeared from the balcony as silently as a moth fluttering to the light. “Ah, Stefan, welcome,” a voice murmured. The setting was perfect. As Felicity moved toward him--her gown fluttering and swaying in folds of golden pink as delicately tinted as the petals of a rose--Stefan realized he had never seen her so alluring. Her strange eyes shone, her lips curved soft and inviting, her cheeks and throat were like warm, white velvet. He took her outstretched hand--of the texture of a camelia--and it pulsed as if a heart beat in it. “Felicity,” he half whispered, holding her hand, “how wonderful you are!” “Am I?” she breathed, sighingly. “I have been asleep so long, Stefan. perhaps I am awake a little now.” Her eyes, wide and gleaming as he had never seen them, held him. A mysterious perfume, subtle and poignant, hung about her. Her gauzy dress fluttered as she breathed; she seemed barely poised on her slim feet. He put out his arm as if to stay her from mothlike flight, and it fell about her waist. He pressed her to him. Her lips met his--they were incredibly soft and warm--they seemed to blossom under his kisses. * * * * * Adolph, returning from the opera at midnight, donned his old jacket and a pair of slippers and, lighting his pipe, settled himself with a paper to await Stefan's coming. Presently first the paper, then the burnt-out pipe, fell from his hands--he dozed, started awake, and dozed again. At last he roused himself and stretched stiffly. The lamp was burning low--he looked at his watch--it was four o'clock. Stefan's Gladstone bag still yawned on a chair beside the table. In it, the dull glow of the lamp was reflected from a small silver object lying among a litter of ties and socks. Adolph picked it up, and looked for some moments at the face of Mary, smiling above her little son. He shook his head. “Tch, tch! Quel dommage-what a pity!” he sighed, and putting down the picture undressed slowly, blew out the lamp, and went to bed. XII