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 to the family of this strange brother and sister; the chances were that they would never be answered. The much-talked-of reticence of Anglo-Saxons, he had learned, was as nothing compared to the reticence of a Latin.

"How did it happen?" he inquired.

She explained that she had been on her way to a studio in Montparnasse. In changing omnibuses at Place Clichy her heel had caught in a step, and the damage had been done when she tried to save herself from a fall. "I scratched my leg too," she added, "and it hurts. . . . The worst of it is I shall be very late for my appointment."

By this time he liked her so well, or rather he was so completely under her spell, that he dreaded for her the postponement of her appointment, whatever it might be,—and it was as likely as not an amatory one, Paris being Paris.

"I think it is useless to wait for Léon," he said. "Won't you let me advance the necessary sum?" Thank heaven, he could.

"Oh, Monsieur, that would be noble of you."

"We can take a taxicab to the shop. Have you any preference?"

"Yes—the nearest."

He handed her the béret she had left on the piano.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He told her. "And yours?"

"Olga."