a pedestal. Not even when she had been far gone under the influence of drink or drugs had she overstepped the boundary he had unconsciously set. With the others she might exchange hilarious obscenities, but with him, except for licenses of vocabularly and topic appropriate to their setting, her behavior was blameless, her tact perfect. In the course of time it was no secret that Marthe had fallen wildly in love with her polite cavalier, but there was a tacit understanding that she was to be allowed to play her own game as she saw fit. To Mme. Annoni, the woman at the caisse, Marthe had made full confession. "It's better as it is," she had concluded, in tears. "I suffer, but what exquisite suffering! Promise never to let him know."
Mme. Annoni had promised, and promptly reported the confession.
One evening, after a day devoted to experimental painting in accordance with technical hints he had obtained from a master at the Beaux Arts to whom Casimir had recommended him, Grover arrived late at the cafe. Somewhat the worse for her favorite cherry brandies, of which he suspected her of having consumed more than her usual number out of disappointment at his absence, Marthe was on the point of leaving, and he begged her to remain a while longer.
"Why should I wait?" she laughed, a little hysterically. "What am I to you? Why don't you spend
