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 in the sun-splashed streets before the promenaders made their appearance.

Never had the magic of Paris been more potent, never had he walked its streets with such a Shelley-like sensation of being borne on clouds. The only fly in his ointment was the contretemps caused by the illness of Olga's inconvenient pseudo-aunt.

For Hellgren he was genuinely sorry, but no court of love could hold him, Grover Thanet, responsible for the fact that Hellgren was no longer loved, if ever he had been. But—intrusive thought—if Olga had never loved Oscar, how could she have allied herself with him? Women sometimes let themselves in for that sort of thing, he supposed, without knowing the meaning of a real love that was destined to overtake them. It was a game in which Hellgren had played, and for two years running, won; now it was another's turn. Despite which consoling sophistry one could scarcely use Hellgren's blindness and hospitality as a screen for covert glances and whisperings. That sort of clandestine operations,—so much in vogue,—revolted him. His relation with Olga must be different, even if they had to wait until a feasible plan could be evolved, until they could establish their very own privacy. A fairly substantial cheque was on its way across the Atlantic: enough to let them escape. He must look up some modest retreat—for a honeymoon!

The thing to do was to hold grimly to the helm till some harbor hove into view. Women were ingenious