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 cloak, was capering about him and urging him to hurry. "Your money is inside your shirt," she reminded him.

Suddenly, her attention attracted by a remark of Marthe's, Columbine caught sight of Grover, and her eyes, from behind their black domino, scrutinized him a moment. Then she dove forward and withdrew some notes from the hand of her corpulent escort.

"There! For the stockings!" she said, placing the money in Grover's hand.

For a moment he stood dumb, not taking it in. Then as her heels flicked past and she vanished through the doors of the theatre, he knew, with an elated throb, that it was Olga.

"Mais!" he exclaimed, looking from the money in his hand to the girl at his side. He had fallen out of the moon with a thud that dazed him.

Marthe's steady eyes had seen more than his own. They were now saying for her what her lips would have been too proud to utter: So that's your type!

He heard a cold little voice. "I've come far enough with you. I must run away. Bon soir!" and she was off before he could stop her.

This desertion annoyed him. He was also annoyed at Olga, though tingling with a romantic excitement.

Olga had come back to him. Perhaps she existed—in reality after all. Perhaps—

But her ponderous friend?