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 did, to the strains of the Hungarian rhapsody just begun by the orchestra, Mme. Momoro and her son took two of the vacated chairs and turned to watch the musicians. She sat as eloquently impassive as any carven Hellenic stillness indeed; nevertheless, there were slight quiverings and alterations in the contour of her finely outlined lips, and, although almost imperceptible, these delicate shadowings were seen and comprehended by the intelligent young Hyacinthe. He smiled faintly.

"There are some drolleries in the world," he said in French; and Mme. Momoro seemed to acquiesce.

Meanwhile, the three polite young men went for a stroll on the deck, rather elated, though Ogle was disturbed by a detail. "I find I'm a little rusty in my French," he said. "It's quite a time since I've had occasion to use it, and I found myself at a loss, rather, when I began to speak to her. For a moment I actually couldn't remember the word for 'chair'."

Albert Jones laughed. "Don't let that upset you, Laurence. She answered Macklyn in English, you noticed, as soon as he got through speaking French to her."

"Why wouldn't she?" Macklyn retorted, with some warmth. "She knew perfectly well we were