ments, and when Nora came out on to the balcony, he had apparently gone to sleep over a book, or else the high-hung electric lights had tired his eyes, for he had covered them with a plaid silk handkerchief such as—Nora thought pityingly—no human being except a very common foreigner would use.
She sat down under an electric light and pretended to read. The German ladies glanced at her, and then returned to their harrowing tale, that of a cook who had selfishly indulged in the measles. The young man did not wake up. Altogether, it seemed fantastic to trouble about taking precautions; nevertheless Nora faithfully carried out the programme she had detailed to Terry. She read for a while; then feigned to tire of her book, and leaned back, gazing over the hotel garden with a dreamy air. At last she rose, laid her book on the chair as if to keep her place, and began sauntering up and down the balcony. No one paid the slightest attention to her, but she continued to act her part, and presently seemed to hesitate at the top of the steps, whether to descend or stop where she was. Eventually she decided to descend slowly, rather listlessly, and to hover about below, examining the flowers, and smelling a rose here and there. Then she saw a path which pleased her, and strolled along it, disappearing from the sight of any one on the balcony who might happen to be observant.
The garden of this little hotel at St. Pierre de Char-
