On Sunday afternoon Alexander rememberedMiss Burgoyne's invitation and called at herapartment. He found it a delightful littleplace and he met charming people there.Hilda lived alone, attended by a very prettyand competent French servant who answeredthe door and brought in the tea. Alexanderarrived early, and some twenty-odd peopledropped in during the course of the afternoon.Hugh MacConnell came with his sister,and stood about, managing his tea-cupawkwardly and watching every one out of hisdeep-set, faded eyes. He seemed to havemade a resolute effort at tidiness of attire,and his sister, a robust, florid woman with asplendid joviality about her, kept eyeing hisfreshly creased clothes apprehensively. It wasnot very long, indeed, before his coat hungwith a discouraged sag from his gaunt shouldersand his hair and beard were rumpled asif he had been out in a gale. His dry humorwent under a cloud of absent-minded kindlinesswhich, Mainhall explained, always overtookhim here. He was never so witty or sosharp here as elsewhere, and Alexanderthought he behaved as if he were an elderlyrelative come in to a young girl's party.

The editor of a monthly review camewith his wife, and Lady Kildare, the Irishphilanthropist, brought her young nephew,Robert Owen, who had come up from Oxford,and who was visibly excited and gratifiedby his first introduction to Miss Burgoyne. Hilda was very nice to him, and he sat onthe edge of his chair, flushed with hisconversational efforts and moving his chinabout nervously over his high collar.Sarah Frost, the novelist, came with her husband,a very genial and placid old scholar who hadbecome slightly deranged upon the subject ofthe fourth dimension. On other matters hewas perfectly rational and he was easy andpleasing in conversation. He looked verymuch like Agassiz, and his wife, in herold-fashioned black silk dress, overskirted andtight-sleeved, reminded Alexander of the earlypictures of Mrs. Browning. Hilda seemedparticularly fond of this quaint couple,and Bartley himself was so pleased with theirmild and thoughtful converse that he took hisleave when they did, and walked with themover to Oxford Street, where they waited fortheir 'bus. They asked him to come to seethem in Chelsea, and they spoke very tenderlyof Hilda. "She's a dear, unworldly littlething," said the philosopher absently;"more like the stage people of my young days--folk ofsimple manners. There aren't many such left.American tours have spoiled them, I'm afraid.They have all grown very smart. Lamb wouldn'tcare a great deal about many of them, I fancy."

Alexander went back to Bedford Squarea second Sunday afternoon. He had a longtalk with MacConnell, but he got no word withHilda alone, and he left in a discontentedstate of mind. For the rest of the weekhe was nervous and unsettled, and keptrushing his work as if he were preparing forimmediate departure. On Thursday afternoonhe cut short a committee meeting, jumped intoa hansom, and drove to Bedford Square.He sent up his card, but it came back tohim with a message scribbled across the front.

So sorry I can't see you. Will you come anddine with me Sunday evening at half-past seven?

H.B.

When Bartley arrived at Bedford Square onSunday evening, Marie, the pretty littleFrench girl, met him at the door and conductedhim upstairs. Hilda was writing in herliving-room, under the light of a tall desk lamp.Bartley recognized the primrose satin gownshe had worn that first evening at Lady Walford's.

"I'm so pleased that you think me worththat yellow dress, you know," he said, takingher hand and looking her over admiringlyfrom the toes of her canary slippers to hersmoothly parted brown hair. "Yes, it's very,very pretty. Every one at Lady Walford's waslooking at it."

Hilda curtsied. "Is that why you think itpretty? I've no need for fine clothes in Mac'splay this time, so I can afford a few duddiesfor myself. It's owing to that same chance,by the way, that I am able to ask you to dinner.I don't need Marie to dress me this season,so she keeps house for me, and my little Galwaygirl has gone home for a visit. I should neverhave asked you if Molly had been here,for I remember you don't like English cookery."

Alexander walked about the room, looking at everything.

"I haven't had a chance yet to tell youwhat a jolly little place I think this is.Where did you get those etchings?They're quite unusual, aren't they?"

"Lady Westmere sent them to me from Romelast Christmas. She is very much interestedin the American artist who did them.They are all sketches made about the Villad'Este, you see. He painted that group ofcypresses for the Salon, and it was boughtfor the Luxembourg."

Alexander walked over to the bookcases."It's the air of the whole place here thatI like. You haven't got anything that doesn'tbelong. Seems to me it looks particularlywell to-night. And you have so many flowers.I like these little yellow irises."

"Rooms always look better by lamplight--in London, at least. Though Marie is clean--really clean, as the French are. Why doyou look at the flowers so critically? Mariegot them all fresh in Covent Garden marketyesterday morning."

"I'm glad," said Alexander simply."I can't tell you how glad I am to haveyou so pretty and comfortable here, and to hearevery one saying such nice things about you.You've got awfully nice friends," he addedhumbly, picking up a little jade elephant fromher desk. "Those fellows are all very loyal,even Mainhall. They don't talk of any oneelse as they do of you."

Hilda sat down on the couch and saidseriously: "I've a neat little sum in the bank,too, now, and I own a mite of a hut inGalway. It's not worth much, but I love it.I've managed to save something every year,and that with helping my three sisters nowand then, and tiding poor Cousin Mike overbad seasons. He's that gifted, you know,but he will drink and loses more goodengagements than other fellows ever get.And I've traveled a bit, too."

Marie opened the door and smilinglyannounced that dinner was served.

"My dining-room," Hilda explained, asshe led the way, "is the tiniest placeyou have ever seen."

It was a tiny room, hung all round withFrench prints, above which ran a shelf fullof china. Hilda saw Alexander look up at it.

"It's not particularly rare," she said,"but some of it was my mother's. Heaven knowshow she managed to keep it whole, through allour wanderings, or in what baskets and bundlesand theatre trunks it hasn't been stowed away.We always had our tea out of those blue cupswhen I was a little girl, sometimes in thequeerest lodgings, and sometimes on a trunkat the theatre--queer theatres, for that matter."

It was a wonderful little dinner. There waswatercress soup, and sole, and a delightfulomelette stuffed with mushrooms and truffles,and two small rare ducklings, and artichokes,and a dry yellow Rhone wine of which Bartleyhad always been very fond. He drank itappreciatively and remarked that there wasstill no other he liked so well.

"I have some champagne for you, too. Idon't drink it myself, but I like to see itbehave when it's poured. There is nothingelse that looks so jolly."

"Thank you. But I don't like it so well asthis." Bartley held the yellow wine againstthe light and squinted into it as he turned theglass slowly about. "You have traveled, yousay. Have you been in Paris much these lateyears?"

Hilda lowered one of the candle-shadescarefully. "Oh, yes, I go over to Paris often.There are few changes in the old Quarter.Dear old Madame Anger is dead--but perhapsyou don't remember her?"

"Don't I, though! I'm so sorry to hear it.How did her son turn out? I remember howshe saved and scraped for him, and how healways lay abed till ten o'clock. He was thelaziest fellow at the Beaux Arts; and that'ssaying a good deal."

"Well, he is still clever and lazy. Theysay he is a good architect when he will work.He's a big, handsome creature, and he hatesAmericans as much as ever. But Angel--doyou remember Angel?"

"Perfectly. Did she ever get back toBrittany and her bains de mer?"

"Ah, no. Poor Angel! She got tired ofcooking and scouring the coppers in MadameAnger's little kitchen, so she ran away with asoldier, and then with another soldier.Too bad! She still lives about the Quarter,and, though there is always a soldat, she hasbecome a blanchisseuse de fin. She did my blousesbeautifully the last time I was there, and wasso delighted to see me again. I gave her allmy old clothes, even my old hats, though shealways wears her Breton headdress. Her hairis still like flax, and her blue eyes are just likea baby's, and she has the same three freckleson her little nose, and talks about going backto her bains de mer."

Bartley looked at Hilda across the yellowlight of the candles and broke into a low,happy laugh. "How jolly it was being young,Hilda! Do you remember that first walk wetook together in Paris? We walked down tothe Place Saint-Michel to buy some lilacs.Do you remember how sweet they smelled?"

"Indeed I do. Come, we'll have ourcoffee in the other room, and you can smoke."

Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished tochange the drift of their talk, but Bartleyfound it pleasant to continue it.

"What a warm, soft spring evening thatwas," he went on, as they sat down in thestudy with the coffee on a little table betweenthem; "and the sky, over the bridges, was justthe color of the lilacs. We walked on downby the river, didn't we?"

Hilda laughed and looked at him questioningly. He saw a gleam in her eyes that he rememberedeven better than the episode he was recalling.

"I think we did," she answered demurely. "It was on the Quai we met that womanwho was crying so bitterly. I gave her a sprayof lilac, I remember, and you gave her afranc. I was frightened at your prodigality."

"I expect it was the last franc I had.What a strong brown face she had, and verytragic. She looked at us with such despair andlonging, out from under her black shawl.What she wanted from us was neither ourflowers nor our francs, but just our youth.I remember it touched me so. I would havegiven her some of mine off my back, if I could.I had enough and to spare then," Bartley mused,and looked thoughtfully at his cigar.

They were both remembering what thewoman had said when she took the money:"God give you a happy love!" It was not inthe ingratiating tone of the habitual beggar:it had come out of the depths of the poor creature'ssorrow, vibrating with pity for their youthand despair at the terribleness of human life;it had the anguish of a voice of prophecy. Until she spoke, Bartley had not realizedthat he was in love. The strange woman,and her passionate sentence that rangout so sharply, had frightened them both.They went home sadly with the lilacs, backto the Rue Saint-Jacques, walking very slowly,arm in arm. When they reached the housewhere Hilda lodged, Bartley went across thecourt with her, and up the dark old stairs tothe third landing; and there he had kissed herfor the first time. He had shut his eyes togive him the courage, he remembered, andshe had trembled so--

Bartley started when Hilda rang the littlebell beside her. "Dear me, why did you dothat? I had quite forgotten--I was back there.It was very jolly," he murmured lazily, asMarie came in to take away the coffee.

Hilda laughed and went over to thepiano. "Well, we are neither of us twentynow, you know. Have I told you about mynew play? Mac is writing one; really for methis time. You see, I'm coming on."

"I've seen nothing else. What kind of apart is it? Shall you wear yellow gowns?I hope so."

He was looking at her round slender figure,as she stood by the piano, turning over apile of music, and he felt the energy in everyline of it.

"No, it isn't a dress-up part. He doesn'tseem to fancy me in fine feathers. He saysI ought to be minding the pigs at home, and Isuppose I ought. But he's given me somegood Irish songs. Listen."

She sat down at the piano and sang.When she finished, Alexander shook himselfout of a reverie.

"Sing `The Harp That Once,' Hilda.You used to sing it so well."

"Nonsense. Of course I can't really sing,except the way my mother and grandmotherdid before me. Most actresses nowadayslearn to sing properly, so I tried a master;but he confused me, just!"

Alexander laughed. "All the same, sing it, Hilda."

Hilda started up from the stool andmoved restlessly toward the window."It's really too warm in this room to sing.Don't you feel it?"

Alexander went over and opened thewindow for her. "Aren't you afraid to let thewind low like that on your neck? Can't I geta scarf or something?"

"Ask a theatre lady if she's afraid of drafts!"Hilda laughed. "But perhaps, as I'm so warm--give me your handkerchief. There, just in front."He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder-straps."There, that will do. It looks like a bib."She pushed his hand away quickly and stoodlooking out into the deserted square."Isn't London a tomb on Sunday night?"

Alexander caught the agitation in her voice.He stood a little behind her, and tried tosteady himself as he said: "It's soft and misty.See how white the stars are."

For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke.They stood close together, looking outinto the wan, watery sky, breathing alwaysmore quickly and lightly, and it seemed as ifall the clocks in the world had stopped.Suddenly he moved the clenched hand he heldbehind him and dropped it violently athis side. He felt a tremor run throughthe slender yellow figure in front of him.

She caught his handkerchief from herthroat and thrust it at him without turninground. "Here, take it. You must go now,Bartley. Good-night."

Bartley leaned over her shoulder, withouttouching her, and whispered in her ear:"You are giving me a chance?"

"Yes. Take it and go. This isn't fair,you know. Good-night."

Alexander unclenched the two hands athis sides. With one he threw down thewindow and with the other--still standingbehind her--he drew her back against him.

She uttered a little cry, threw her armsover her head, and drew his face down to hers."Are you going to let me love you a little, Bartley?"she whispered.