Her hand sought a door knob, and as she hesitated for an instance, her perturbation seemed to leave her. She entered the room without knocking and as she did so, a middle aged man, François de Rochelle, looked up in surprise and forced a thin smile of welcome to his lips. His words of greeting, “Sana, you are back again,” must have rung in his own ears with their true bluntness, so he quickly added, “So soon, mon cherie?” He arose from his chair and walking over to Sana, took her face tenderly in his hands and remarked, rather peevishly, “You are pale, joujou. Did not the weather agree with you? I thought the fresh air blowing over the bridge would do you good. Did you not go there?” The contented smile faded from Sana’s face and was replaced by one of pitiful sadness as she queried blankly, “Where?” The far-off stare in the girl’s eyes and her strange attitude gave de Rochelle food for thought that was not of the most pleasant kind. With a scarcely conscious gesture Sana removed her hat and mechanically walked to the couch where she sat down, to look with a vacant gaze out of the window over Central Park. De Rochelle, pushing aside some papers, sought a seat next to her, and placing his arm about her shoulder, asked in a voice that bespoke his own anxiety, “What is it, mon cherie? What troubles you today? Come, let me feel your pulse.” She laughed lightly, although not with contentment, as his hand encircled her wrist and he placed his ear upon her chest, in an effort to gauge the pulsations of her heart. For a few moments there was a silence between them. Then de Rochelle, raising his head and looking straight into her eyes, said, “There is nothing the matter with you.” Then kissing her, he whispered, “And your lips are just as sweet as ever.” Sana, slightly bored, freed herself gently from his arms, and as she did so, murmured “Oh, it is nothing.” Throwing her head backward, she added, “I do not feel very well, but it is beyond me to say what it is.” A nameless fear had suddenly arisen within her heart. Yes, that was it. The fear of speaking to him of the incident on the bridge. It would probably cause him worry and it would rob her of the delicious dreams she would weave about the man who was already enthroned in the most secret recesses of her heart. So saying no more she rose from the couch, and left the apartment to go to her own room, leaving de Rochelle alone, in consternation and uneasy contemplation. When she reached her room, Sana threw herself upon the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Presently, however, she rose to a sitting posture, and tangled her fingers madly in her hair, asking herself unanswerable questions. “Why should I want to commit suicide? Does not François love me, and do I not love him with all my heart? Putting myself away in such a cowardly manner--would he ever get over it? And then, too, what of my dear mother?”