“Yes, it advertises their emancipation. I went through it in Paris, but mine was a light case.” “And brief, I should think,” smiled Mary, to whom Stefan's feline perfection of neatness was one of his charms. At the hotel, on the other hand, the groups, though equally individual, lacked this harum-scarum quality, and, if occasionally noisy, were clean and orderly. “Is it because they can afford to dress better?” Mary asked on their next evening there, noting the contrast. “No,” said Stefan. “That velvet shirt cost as much probably as half a dozen cotton ones. These people have more, certainly, or they wouldn't be here--but the real reason is that they are a little older. The other crowd is raw with youth. These have begun to find themselves; they don't need to advertise their opinions on their persons.” He was looking about him with quite a friendly eye. “You don't seem to hate humanity this evening, Stefan,” Mary commented. “No,” he grinned. “I confess these people are less objectionable than most.” He spoke in rapid French to the waiter, ordering another drink. “And the language,” he continued. “If you knew what it means to me to hear French!” Mary nodded rather ruefully. Her French was of the British school-girl variety, grammatically precise, but with a hopeless, insular accent. After a few attempts Stefan had ceased trying to speak it with her. “Darling,” he had begged, “don't let us--it is the only ugly sound you make.” One by one they came to know the habitués of these places. In the restaurant Stefan was detested, but tolerated for the sake of his wife. “Beauty and the Beast” they were dubbed. But in the hotel café he made himself more agreeable, and was liked for his charming appearance, his fluent French, and his quick mentality. The “Villagers,” as these people called themselves, owing to their proximity to New York's old Greenwich Village, admired Mary with ardor, and liked her, but for a time were baffled by her innate English reserve. Mentally they stood round her like a litter of yearling pups about a stranger, sniffing and wagging friendly but uncertain tails, doubtful whether to advance with affectionate fawnings or to withdraw to safety. This was particularly true of the men--the women, finding Mary a stanch Feminist, and feeling for her the sympathy a bride always commands from her sex, took to her at once. The revolutionary group on the other hand would have broken through her pleasant aloofness with the force--and twice the speed--of a McEwan, had Stefan not, with them, adopted the role of snarling watchdog.