window. Day after day there came to her superb flowers, bearing no card. At last his long vigil was rewarded. He saw her standing in the window, and knew that she was well again. She caught sight of him and started. He arose, bared his head as to a princess, then turned and walked slowly away. Her eyes followed him until blinded by scalding tears. Desbarets knew that he must go away somewhere. But before he might do that, there was one more duty which he must perform. The young Frenchman who had affronted him, that night at the Casino, must be attended to. Though he had been warned that Desbarets was a dead shot and the most accomplished swordsman in America, he had insisted on a duel. Very well, then! He should have it! But let him look to himself. The young American was in no mood to trifle with an adversary. It was at that point that the reader of the third instalment of "Lorette" brought up, breathless, at the end of the instalment. The duel was in the March number. A beautiful woman came at night to Desbarets' rooms in the hotel and begged him to spare the life of his opponent. He promised. Early the next morning they met with swords. In trying to avoid killing the impetuous youth, Desbarets was severely wounded. When he awoke Lorette was bending over his bed. He had been removed to her villa and she had nursed him through his fever. Slowly he recovered. Then he knew that he must go away somewhere. They parted. He roamed about the world for a time. One day at Trouville he saw a bather, far from shore, swimming weakly in the treacherous cross-current. He dashed into the sea. The waves were high. He went to the rescue with powerful strokes. As he neared the tired swimmer he saw that it was was to be the end? In another moment he was beside her. "Save yourself!" she said in a faint whisper. "No," he said. "Rest your hand upon my shoulder-so. Be brave, Lorette! We can never reach the shore. Let us swim out and out, into the storm, until-until the end!" She smiled into his eyes. "Perhaps it is better so," she said. "I am not afraid." They turned their backs to the land. Farther, farther out into the angry sea he swam with her. They were buffeted by huge waves, one of which tore her bathingsuit. She grew weaker. "Kiss me," she whispered. Out there, among the waves, under the blue canopy of heaven, their lips met. Then-darkness! But in the April issue they were picked up by a yacht. They recovered and were put ashore. Then Desbarets knew that he must go away somewhere. They parted. But inexorable Fate continued to direct their destinies. A few months later, at an oasis in the Sahara Desert, they met by chance. They were riding camels and were clad in burnouses. It was sunset. They heard the cry of the muezzin, "Allah-ilAllah!" The stars appeared. There was something strange and passionate in the throbbing stillness of the African night. They had had premonitions that they were going to meet. They had begun to expect to meet-unexpectedly. They were made for each other! It was Fate! An Arab love-song sounded, somewhere, in the distance. Emotion filled their souls. She poured out her heart to him, telling him all, and shuddering as she mentioned her husband's name. Her life with Coventry had not been happy. She had married him when a mere girl, in order to save her father's fortune. Until then she had been ignorant of all that marriage meant. She had never loved her husband. He treated her like a child-a mere toy purchased by his wealth; something to be decked out in jewels and costly clothing for his edification and the envy of the world. But her soul! Of her soul and intellect he took no heed. He never spoke to her of the real things of life-the things that count! Several times she had tried to make him see that she, too, could think, but he always told her not to vex her pretty head about the world's affairs. So by degrees she had come to know that David Coventry was incapable of understanding aught of her save only the beauty of her slim young body. Realizing that, she had begun to loathe the man-to pray that his financial operations would keep him occupied, keep him away from her.... She shuddered and burst into tears. And it was then that Desbarets took her in his arms and with a great oath swore that she should never, never live with Coventry again. MOLTO APPASSIONATA On the morning of the first of April, when advance copies of Armstrong's for May reached the office, Mr. Braithwaite Ball called Mrs. Armstrong on the telephone. He did not, however, use the instrument which stood upon his desk, but went, instead, to a neighboring hotel, where there were booths. For spring was in the air. "Good morning, Empress," he said, when he heard her voice. "Oh, good morning, Braithwaite!" "The advance copies for May have just come." "Good! Can you drop in this afternoon?" "Thanks, yes," he answered, "unless-unless you'll make that dream of mine come true to-day?" "That dream?" "Yes, Empress. You know I've always wanted you to see my rooms, and you've half-promised, haven't you? Would it seem too bohemian for the great lady to lunch with her vassal?" She was silent for a moment. "And after lunch we could be all cozy," he urged, "and I'd read the new instalment of 'Lorette' to you. It's the next to the last, you know. There's a big scene between the three in old Coventry's library." "I suppose," she reflected aloud, "that most people would think it rather a wild. thing to do "Undoubtedly," said Mr. Ball. "But you and I aren't 'most people'-are we, Empress?" "All right," she said. "I'll come." "How ripping of you! . . . You know where I live?" "Yes." "You needn't ring," he told her. "Just walk in and up two flights, to the back. It's only a little box of a place, you know. But snug. It will amuse you. I'll leave the door ajar. Shall we say one o'clock?" "Yes." "Very well, then . . . à déjeuner." When Mr. Ball returned to the Armstrong Building he went directly to Mr. Shrimpton's office. "If it will be perfectly convenient, Chief," he said, "I should like to remain. away from the office to-day. Mrs. Armstrong just called up and asked me to see about some things for her." Through his horn-rimmed spectacles Shrimpton beamed his paternal approbation. "My dear fellow," he replied, magnificently, "in the first place I may say that it will be completely and entirely convenient so far as we are concerned; and in the second, let me add that, were it not so, we should take immediate steps to-ah-to JAMES by a neighboring caterer to prepare the repast. Tastefully he had arranged a small table, by the window, for two. It had a charmingly clandestine look. . . . So she was actually coming to his rooms at last! The thing seemed quite too wonderful to be true. It was like a Letchwood story in real life. Hadn't the beautiful Desbarets' rooms in the hotel at Biarritz? Hadn't Caro, the beautiful heroine of "Molecules," gone to the chambers of Van Kleek? Women trusted men like Desbarets and Van Kleek. They were gentlemen such perfect gentlemen that one could hardly tell them apart. They talked alike, acted alike, and even looked alike in the illustrations. True, Mr Ball was not a rich young man, as they were, but he flattered himself that his hair grew the way theirs did, and that he, too, was the sort of man with whom a woman was safe. He dropped into the chair in which Mrs. Armstrong would sit at luncheon, and critically reviewed the mise en scène presented from that point of view. It satisfied him. The upper portion of the wall he faced displayed several original drawings for illustrations which had appeared in the Armstrong publications; also a group of signed photographs of celebrities, most of them authors. Beneath this pictorial array bookshelves extended the full length of the room. There were two striking facts about the books of Mr. Ball. The obvious fact was that they covered an amazing variety of subjects. Popular novels basked placidly beside books on Military Tactics, Theosophy, Landscape Gardening, Investments, MountainClimbing, Marine Architecture, and Protestant Hymns. There were books of ecclesiastical biography, of racy reminiscence from the French, and of kindergarten songs for children. Less obvious but more illuminating was the fact that hardly any book in the collection was over two years old. This combination of variety and recentness might have proved puzzling to a person unfamiliar with the history of Mr. Braithwaite Ball. But, as with many of life's mysteries, the key lay in a single simple fact. For two years past Mr. Ball had, among other duties, conducted that department in the Household Helper Magazine which is appropriately known as "The Editor's Book-shelf." Having approved the appearance of his sitting-room, Mr. Ball changed his necktie and brushed his coat. At a few minutes before one he opened the hall door and left it slightly ajar. Then, taking up a slender volume of Rossetti, bound in green and gold, he disposed himself with careful negligence upon the sofa, to await her coming. . . She would probably knock. He would call "Come in." As she entered, he would be revealed to her in a posture of graceful and studious recumbence, befitting the literary bachelor in his lair. For some moments he held the book before him. The clock struck one. She might arrive at any minute now! At five minutes after one he found himself becoming restless. Could she have changed her mind? Surely, if she had done so, she would have sent him word. But even then there was the luncheon-quite an expensive little luncheon. And he would be placed in a ridiculous position before Ichi. He became conscious that his hands were moist. Looking at them, he saw that his fingers had absorbed a light-green tone from the binding of the book. He arose and, hastening to the other room, washed away the stain. Annoying! Rossetti was just the thing to be reading, but he'd have to find some other book. He moved toward the sitting-room. Then, as his foot was on the threshold, he heard a faint knock. Dash it all! There was no time now to get a book, or even reach the sofa. "Come in!" He moved toward the door. It opened slowly, revealing Mrs. Armstrong. Never had he seen her looking quite so lovely. The roses which were always in her cheeks were blooming red-partly, perhaps, because of the two flights she had ascended; partly, he hoped, because of where the two flights led. closing the door behind her, leaned against it for an instant. "Empress!" he said in a caressing voice, as he bowed and kissed her glove. Her breathing was accented as delightfully as her coloring. For a moment she did not speak but stood there with a smile upon her lips and in her eyes—a smile curiously serious and sweet. "Let me take your things." She moved into the room, looking about with frank curiosity as he relieved her of the dainty little ruff she wore about her neck and her light, soft coat of Japanese silk-articles small, delicate, feminine, fascinating to touch. "Won't you take off your hat?" he asked, gazing with admiration at the piquant wonder of black straw, with its saucy rake of brim and plume. "No. . . . Don't you remember, Braithwaite, what Caro said when she went to Van Kleek's rooms and he asked her to take off hers? She said that even under the most informal circumstances formality was not altogether gone so long as the woman kept her hat on." "So she did!" exclaimed Ball. "How simply ripping of you to remember!" Clearly she, like himself, recognized the similarity between their relation to each other and the relations of certain characters in Letchwood's books. "What a pretty room!" she said. "It has never been so pretty before," he returned. "Won't you sit down?" He drew back her chair from the table. Then, having seated her, he took his place, not opposite, but at right angles to her. "Ichi!" The Japanese appeared with cups of soup. When he had served them and withdrawn again, Mrs. Armstrong leaned across and asked in a low voice: "What do you suppose your man thinks?" "My man?" repeated Ball, charmed with the sound of the two words. "Ob, he doesn't think. I pay him not to." He was no less delighted with the Letchwood sound of his rejoinder than with her misapprehension as to Ichi. She thought that Ichi was his man! The charming fancy so appealed to Mr. Ball's imagination that, momentarily at least, he almost thought that it was true. "Ichi," he added, "is the soul of discretion. I believe the At sight of him she entered quickly and, fellow would willingly die for me, Empress." |