.
withdrew his eyes in a hurry, amid a roar of laughter from the others. He was glad when Braith's entrance caused a diversion.
``Hullo, Don Juan! I see you, Lothario! Drinking again?''
Braith took it all as a matter of course, but this time failed to return as good as they gave. He took a seat beside Gethryn and said in a low tone:
``I've just come from your house. There's a letter from the Salon in your box.''
Gethryn set down his wine untasted and reached for his hat.
``What's the matter, Reggy? Has Lisette gone back on you?'' asked Clifford, tenderly.
``It's the Salon,'' said Braith, as Gethryn went out with a hasty ``Good night.''
``Poor Reggy, how hard he takes it!'' sighed Clifford.
Gethryn hurried along the familiar streets with his heart in his boots sometimes, and sometimes in his mouth.
In his box was a letter and a note addressed in pencil. He snatched them both, and lighting a candle, mounted the stairs, unlocked his door and sank breathless upon the lounge. He tore open the first envelope. A bit of paper fell out. It was from Braith and said:
I congratulate you either way. If you are successful I shall be as glad as you are. If not, I still congratulate you on the manly courage which you are going to show in turning defeat into victory.
``He's one in a million,'' thought Gethryn, and opened the other letter. It contained a folded paper and a card. The card was white. The paper read:
You are admitted to the Salon with a No. 1. My compliments. J. Lefebvre
He ought to have been pleased, but instead he felt weak and giddy, and the pleasure was more like pain. He leaned against the table quite unstrung, his mind in a whirl. He got up and went to the window. Then he shook himself and walked over to his cabinet. Taking out a bunch of keys, he selected one and opened what Clifford called his ``cellar.''
Clifford knew and deplored the fact that Gethryn's ``cellar'' was no longer open to the public. Since the day when Rex returned from Julien's, tired and cross, to find a row of empty bottles on the floor and Clifford on the sofa conversing incoherently with himself, and had his questions interrupted by a maudlin squawk from the parrot – also tipsy – since that day Gethryn had carried the key. He now produced a wine glass and a dusty bottle, filled the one from the other and emptied it three times in rapid succession. Then he took the glass to the washbasin and rinsed it with great slowness and precision. Then he sat down and tried to think. Number One meant a mention, perhaps a medal. He would telegraph his aunt tomorrow. Suddenly he felt a strong desire to tell someone. He would go and see Braith. No, Braith was in the evening class at the Beaux Arts; so were the others, excepting Clifford and Elliott, and they were at a ball across the river.
Whom could he see? He thought of the garçon. He would ring him up and give him a glass of wine. Alcide was a good fellow and stole very little. The clock struck eleven.
``No, he's gone to bed. Alcide, you've missed a glass of wine and a cigar, you early bird.''
His head was clear enough now. He realized his good fortune. He had never been so happy in his life. He called the pups and romped with them until an unlucky misstep sent Mrs Gummidge, with a shriek, to the top of the wardrobe, whence she glared at Gethryn and spit at the delighted raven.
The young man sat down fairly out of breath, but the pups still kept making charges at his legs and tumbled over themselves with barking. He gathered them up and carried them into his bedroom to their sleeping box. As he stooped to drop them in, there came a knock at his studio door. But when he hastened to open it, glad of company, there was no one there. Surprised, he turned back and saw on the floor before him a note. Picking it up, he took it to the lamp and read it. It was signed, ``Yvonne Descartes.''
When he had read it twice, he sat down to think. Presently he took something out of his waistcoat pocket and held it close to the light. It was a gold brooch in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. On the back was engraved ``Yvonne.'' He held it in his hand a while, and then, getting up, went slowly towards the door. He opened the door, closed it behind him and moved toward the stairs. Suddenly he started.
``Braith! Is that you?''
There was no answer. His voice sounded hollow in the tiled hallway.
``Braith,'' he said again. ``I thought I heard him say `Rex.''' But he kept on to the next floor and stopped before the door of the room which was directly under his own. He paused, hesitated, looking up at a ray of light which came out from a crack in the transom.
``It's too late,'' he muttered, and turned away irresolutely.
A clear voice called from within, ``Entrez donc, Monsieur.''
He opened the door and went in.
On a piano stood a shaded lamp, which threw a soft yellow light over everything. The first glance gave him a hasty impression of a white lace-covered bed and a dainty toilet table on which stood a pair of tall silver candlesticks; and then, as the soft voice spoke again, ``Will Monsieur be seated?'' he turned and confronted the girl whom he had helped in the Place de la Concorde. She lay in a cloud of fleecy wrappings on a lounge that was covered with a great white bearskin. Her blue eyes met Gethryn's, and he smiled faintly. She spoke again:
``Will Monsieur sit a little nearer? It is difficult to speak loudly – I have so little strength.''
Gethryn walked over to the sofa and half unconsciously sank down on the rug which fell on the floor by the invalid's side. He spoke as he would to a sick child.
``I am so very glad you are better. I inquired of the concierge and she told me.''
A slight color crept into the girl's face. ``You are so good. Ah! what should I have done – what can I say?'' She stopped; there were tears in her eyes.
``Please say nothing – please forget it.''
``Forget!'' Presently she continued, almost in a whisper, ``I had so much to say to you, and now you are really here, I can think of nothing, only that you saved me.''
``Mademoiselle – I beg!''
She lay silent a moment more; then she raised herself from the sofa and held out her hand. His hand and eyes met hers.
``I thank you,'' she said, ``I can never forget.'' Then she sank back among the white fluff of lace and fur. ``I only learned this morning,'' she went on, after a minute, `` who sat beside me all that night and bathed my arm, and gave me cooling drinks.''
Gethryn colored. ``There was no one else to take care of you. I sent for my friend, Doctor Ducrot, but he was out of town. Then Dr Bouvier promised to come, and didn't. The concierge was ill herself – I could not leave you alone. You know, you were a little out of your head with fright and fever. I really couldn't leave you to get on by yourself.''
``No,'' cried the girl, excitedly, ``you could not leave me after carrying me out of that terrible crowd; yourself hurt, exhausted, you sat by my side all night long.''
Gethryn laid his hand on her. ``Hélène,'' he said, half jesting, ``I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances – and forgotten.''
She looked at him shyly. ``Don't forget,'' she said.
``I couldn't forget your face,'' he rashly answered, moved by the emotion she showed.
She brightened.
``Did you know me when you first saw me in the crowd?'' She expected him to say ``Yes.''
``No,'' he replied, ``I only saw you were a woman and in danger of your life.''
The brightness fell from her face. ``Then it was all the same to you who I was.''
He nodded. ``Yes – any woman, you know.''
``Old and dirty and ugly?''
His hand slipped from hers. ``And a woman – yes.''
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. ``Then I wish it had been someone else.''
``So do I, for your sake,'' he answered gravely.
She