But this little plot died at its birth, for that very minute the threatened couple arose, and went out arm in arm, apparently as absurdly happy as two young people can be. As they passed out, one of Rosalind's fellow bar-maids turned to her and said,-- "You know who that was?" "Who?" said Rosalind, startled. "That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?" "No; who is she?" "Why, that's"--and readers with heart-disease had better brace themselves up for a great shock--"that's SYLVIA JOY, the famous dancer!" CHAPTER IX SYLVIA JOY Sylvia Joy! And I hadn't so much as looked at her petticoat for weeks! But I would now. The violet eyes and the heavy chestnut hair rose up in moralising vision. Yes! God knows, they were safe in my heart, but petticoats were another matter. Sylvia Joy! Well, did you ever? Well, I'm d----d! Sylvia Joy! I should have been merely superhuman had I been able to control the expression of surprise which convulsed my countenance at the sound of that most significant name. "The name seems familiar to you," said Rosalind, a little surprised and a little eagerly; "do you know the lady?" "Slightly," I prevaricated. "How fortunate!" exclaimed Rosalind; "you'll be all the better able to help me!" "Yes," I said; "but since things have turned out so oddly, I may say that our relations are of so extremely delicate a nature that I shall have very carefully to think out what is best to be done. Meanwhile, do you mind lending me that ring for a few hours?" It was a large oblong opal set round with small diamonds,--a ring of distinguished design you could hardly help noticing, especially on a man's hand, for which it was too conspicuously dainty. I slipped it on the little finger of my left hand, and, begging Rosalind to remain where she was meanwhile, and to take no steps without consulting me, I mysteriously, not to say officiously, departed. I left the twelfth Golden-Haired Bar-maid not too late to stalk her husband and her under-study to their hotel, where they evidently proposed to dine. There was, therefore, nothing left for me but to dine also. So I dined; and when the courses of my dining were ended, I found myself in a mellow twilight at the Cafe du Ciel. And it was about the hour of the sirens' singing. Presently the little golden butterflies flitted once more through the twilight, and again the woman's voice rose like a silver bird on the air. As I have a partiality for her songs, I transcribe this Hymn of the Daughters of Aphrodite, which you must try to imagine transfigured by her voice and the sunset. Queen Aphrodite's Daughters are we, She that was born Of the morn And the sea; White are our limbs As the foam on the wave, Wild are our hymns And our lovers are brave! Queen Aphrodite, Born of the sea, Beautiful dutiful daughters Are we!