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 ing through the slats in the shutters as they went by.

It is hardly to be thought that this last indiscretion would have bothered Lily Trevelyan in the least,—it is more probable that she would have accepted it simply as a tribute to her charms. There are such women and they filled the ranks of the Chateaureux, the Montpasans, the Pompadours (I considerately avoid all English names) since the dawn of history. There is something quite charming in the combination of coquetry and natural innocence which does not object to the display of a soft tapering arm bursting from the spring foliage of a flurry of Parisian lingerie or of a well-rounded neck and bust arising out of a setting of the same tantalizing material. Sometimes indeed Mrs. Trevelyan unconsciously forgot to pull down her blinds and sometimes she complained to her maid of lack of air. But why criticize thus unkindly one of the most beautiful of women? Or why speak slightingly of one who still wielded in a marked degree the most dangerous weapon in human destiny?

Sunlight, reflected from the waves, played in