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 As it was, the glitter and impetus of Paris enchanted her, and Grover kept thinking up diversions which would postpone the inevitable "long quiet talk." He was afraid that if the opportunity arose he would tell Rhoda many things that were better left unsaid. And every day he spent with her was rendered the more exhausting by the strain caused by Olga's silence. No reply to his letter; nothing but the echo of workmen's hammers and chisels in Hellgren's house.

But under all the excitement to which Paris lifted Rhoda, there lay a sombre mood of which Grover caught occasional glimpses. If he had changed in the manner that Rhoda alleged, it was equally true that some analogous change had taken place in her. Some of the old crispness and sparkle had gone; in its place was a stillness, a meditative watchfulness which threatened to turn into melting looks and discouraged gestures.

"It's a great pity you have to leave so soon," said Grover as they sat at dinner on the eve of her departure. They had driven to the restaurant in the Place du Tertre to which Léon Vaudreuil had introduced him, and as it was late they had the room to themselves, except for a few people who couldn't possibly matter to anybody.

"I'd love to stay longer," she replied, and Grover wondered if secretly she weren't a little relieved to be sailing, "but I've been gone for months, and Father isn't at all well. When I'm at home there are little