pleasantly. It opened into a pretty little garden, with a few plants
and trees. They sat there while Jacques went for the horse. Next door
a number of students were singing a song of the boulevards. It was
followed by one in a woman's voice, sweet and clear and passionate,
pitifully reckless. It was, as if in pure contradiction, the opposite
of the other--simple, pathetic. At first there were laughing
interruptions from the students; but the girl kept on, and soon silence
prevailed, save for the voice:

"And when the wine is dry upon the lip,
And when the flower is broken by the hand,
And when I see the white sails of thy ship
Fly on, and leave me there upon the sand:
Think you that I shall weep? Nay, I shall smile:
The wine is drunk, the flower it is gone,
One weeps not when the days no more beguile,
How shall the tear-drops gather in a stone?"

When it was ended, Andree, who had listened intently, drew herself up
with a little shudder. She sat long, looking into the garden, the cub
playing at her feet. Gaston did not disturb her. He got refreshments
and put them on the table, rolled a cigarette, and regarded the scene.
Her knee was drawn up slightly in her hands, her hat was off, her rich
brown hair fell loosely about her head, framing it, her dark eyes glowed
under her bent brows. The lion's cub crawled up on the divan, and thrust
its nose under an arm. Its head clung to her waist. Who was she?
thought Gaston. Delilah, Cleopatra--who? She was lost in thought. She
remained so until the garden door opened, and Jacques entered with
Saracen.