the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly coarseness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had given herself to him a year before." "What did you do?" asked Philip. "I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they rose and passed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command, asked my uncle to take me home." "Did you see any more of him after that?" "No--the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without reading, and soon, thank God, I ceased to know whether he existed or not." "Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip. "Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora. "But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all." "I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to make him welcome here?" A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a look to them before the florist left the house. "Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go." And, smiling at Philip, she said to him-- "It is understood, then,--you will not insist any more, Philip." "Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone. "One would think the devil had a hand in it." It was half-past nine; nobody was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes. His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.