Of the party, Miss Cahere alone appeared cool and composed and neat. She
might, to judge from her bright eyes and delicate complexion, have slept
all night in a comfortable bed. Her hat and her hair had the appearance
of having been arranged at leisure by a maid. Miss Netty had on the
surface a little manner of self-depreciating flurry which sometimes
seemed to conceal a deep and abiding calm. She had little worldly
theories, too, which she often enunciated in her confidential manner;
and one of these was that one should always, in all places and at all
times, be neat and tidy, for no one knows whom one may meet. And, be it
noted in passing, there have been many successful human careers based
upon this simple rule.

She followed the waiter up-stairs with that soft rustle of the dress
which conveys even in the obtuse masculine mind a care for clothes and
the habit of dealing with a good dressmaker. At the head of the stairs
she gave a little cry of surprise, for Paul Deulin was coming along
the broad corridor towards her, swinging the key of his bedroom and
nonchalantly humming an air from a recent comic opera. He was, it
appeared, as much at home here as in London or Paris or New York.

"Ah, mademoiselle!" he said, standing hat in hand before her, "who could
have dreamed of such a pleasure--here and at this moment--in this sad
town?"

"You seemed gay enough--you were singing," answered Miss Cahere.

"It was a sad little air, mademoiselle, and I was singing flat. Perhaps
you noticed it?"