within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I
stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little
nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most
cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their
womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their
destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in
most capitals, and the cafes of Paris are never so full as after a
great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful
performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable.
Young women and old,--sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type,
whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate,
partly of pride; women of the truer French type,--brilliant, smiling,
vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few
Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion
still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole
company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching,
this endless stream of varying types.

Towards the end there came out two people who were becoming almost
familiar figures to me. The man was one of those whose nationality was
not so easily surmised. He was tall and thin, with iron-gray hair,
complexion so sallow as to be almost yellow, black moustache and
imperial, handsome in his way, distinguished, indescribable. By his
side was a girl who had the air of wearing her first long skirt, whose
hair was arranged in somewhat juvenile fashion, and whose dark eyes
were still glowing with the joy of the music. Her figure, though very
slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the
clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only
a few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me,
or whom I had come across during my fortnight's stay in Paris, there