ceased she had dozed off, only to be waked again by the sound of the porte
cochere swinging back on its huge hinges.

It was evidently quite true--as Jack had said--that Paris never goes to
sleep.

Jack had declared he would get up and go over to the studio early, so there
was nothing for it but to get up, and wait patiently till he came back.
Nancy knew that her husband wouldn't like her to venture out into the
streets alone. He was extraordinarily careful of her--careful and
thoughtful for her comfort.

What an angel he was--her great strong, clever Jack!

A girl who goes about by herself as much as Nancy Tremain had gone about
alone during the three years which had elapsed betwixt her leaving school
and her marriage, obtains a considerable knowledge of men, and not of the
nicest kind of men. But Jack was an angel--she repeated the rather absurdly
incongruous word to herself with a very tender feeling in her heart. He
always treated her not only as if she were something beautiful and rare,
but something fragile, to be respected as well as adored....

He had left her so little during the last three weeks that she had never
had time to think about him as she was thinking of him now; "counting up
her mercies," as an old-fashioned lady she had known as a child was wont to
advise those about her to do.

At last she looked round her for a bell. No, there was nothing of the sort
in the tiny room. But Nancy Dampier had already learned to do without all
sorts of things which she had regarded as absolute necessities of life when