sunk between their shoulders. "What a collection of Steinlens!" said Basil. At the table next to them, which had been vacant all this time, now sat down a vivacious French girl, talking gaily to four young men. She looked curiously at Basil and Teresa, and Teresa instantly estimated her charms: Brilliant eyes and teeth, a pliant figure, an effective toilette. But her hands were ugly, her mouth shapeless, and her complexion sallow. Basil glanced at her indifferently.
"Odd that you almost never see a pretty Frenchwoman, even in Paris. They never seemed to me attractive—too nervous, too mental."
"Let us go and have coffee somewhere else," said Teresa suddenly. "It's too noisy here."
"You haven't enjoyed it! What's the matter, dearest? You used to like this place"
"Yes, I like it generally, but I'm tired."
She was petulant, perhaps from fatigue. But when they got out into the soft spring night, and walked the few squares to the little hotel with the terrace-garden that Teresa had suggested, and particularly when they were sitting alone on the terrace, where a few lights glimmered on the bare budding twigs of trees and vines, she became gay. They drank their coffee and liqueurs, and sat on till Basil felt it necessary to have a whisky and soda—talking eagerly or softly, hands clasped across the table, more lov-
