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 or he would have been more careful—swung the Vicomte round against the screen. It tottered, reeled, and, raising a cloud of dust, it fell with a bang to the floor!

It was a leaf out of Sheridan.

For an instant the several members of that little party did not distinctly realize what it was that had happened. Then they saw. There was a pause—a curious pause. Their attitudes betrayed a charming diversity of emotions. The Vicomte, his coat a little disarranged, owing to the somewhat rough handling which he had just received, stood and glared. M. Berigny, more ramroddy than ever, stared. Mr. Warren gasped. Mr. Lovell's quickened breathing, crimsoned cheeks, and flashing eyes seemed to suggest that his breast was a tumult of conflicting feelings. The lady, whose presence had been so unexpectedly revealed, stood behind the fallen screen, with the most charming air of innocence in the world, and she smiled.

It was she who broke the silence. She held out her hand to the Vicomte.

"Bon jour, Philippe!"

"Ah-h-h!" The Vicomte drew himself away with a sort of shuddering exclamation. "Antoinette! It is you! It cannot be!"

"My dear Philippe—why not?"

"Why not? She asks why not!" The Vicomte held out his hands, as though he appealed to the eternal verities. "Traîtresse! Once more is woman false and man betrayed!"

The Vicomte's gesture was worthy of the tragic stage—in France. The lady still held. out her hand, and still she smiled.

"My dear Philippe—try comedy!"

"Comedy? Ah, yes, I will try comedy—the comedy of r-r-revenge!" The Vicomte distinctly rolled his r's. He turned to Mr. Lovell. "I will kill you, even though for killing you, by the law of England, I am hanged. Victor, where is my hat?"

The Vicomte put this question to his friend with a peculiar coldness. M. Berigny shrugged his shoulders.

"How should I know? It is not a question of a hat."

"As you say, it is not a question of a hat. It is a question"—the Vicomte moved towards Mr. Lovell—"of that!"

He raised his hand with the intention of