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 acknowledge what their proximity had meant. Even then it was only by a warm return pressure of his hand, and a smouldering hint of blue in her gray eyes,—a hint which the little guardian folds quickly attempted to deny.

Hellgren was going away, and it was caddish to steal that advantage, but he no longer cared. He seized a private moment to invite Olga to lunch.

In a matter of fact tone she suggested that he lunch at the house instead. "After lunch," she added, "I'm going out to Enghien to visit my aunt."

What's her damn aunt got to do with it, he wondered, but even that hypothetical lady couldn't damp the raging flame.

When he arrived next morning Olga was slicing cabbages and green peppers into a sulphur-colored salad bowl and mixing the contents with a red spoon. His offer to make the dressing was accepted, and she let him find his own materials in the cupboard.

While she broke eggs for the omelette he was allowed to light the gas and cut the bread. Then the bell rang, and the concierge came up to say that M. Peñaverde was calling.

"Oh, miséricorde!" Olga wailed, and reached for two extra eggs.

Grover, in silence, lit a cigarette.