Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a dozen other cafés called him to come in and forget, he continued down the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole city. It was clear that he was out of tune with Paris. As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the crowd pouring from the big gray opera house, an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him about as if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by fine music and stirred by the great passions of this mimic world, so that the women clung more tightly to the arms of their escorts. Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch them pass, felt strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was not like him. Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in an unusual mood--a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest was something new--something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart-- Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she came toward him--that any one came toward him--quickened his pulse. It brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there. Then she raised her eyes--dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady, confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand. "Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!" She smiled--a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her perfect mouth. "That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?" She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could recognize. "No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?" "Only home." "Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?" She nodded. "Number forty-three?" He was glad he was able to remember that number. "Number sixty-four," she corrected.