stopped precisely in the middle of the great bridge over the Seine, and the driver and, to all appearances, the ancient horse were asleep. So the two lovers laughed and as if by a common impulse slipped out of the carriage and to the parapet of the bridge where they could look down upon the silent, moonlit river. Carmelita clung closer to him. He kissed her again and again.
"This is madness—but oh, why can't it last forever?" she murmured.
But already the cold world of reality was stealing into Dudley's intoxicated dream. Vague resentment clouded his voice as he spoke.
"Why am I not rich like the man you are going to marry?" he expressed the thought that had been troubling him since his first meeting with her.
Carmelita looked up at him questioningly. "You think then that only money makes me happy?" The question was fraught with danger for Dudley. But mingled with his outpouring of love for her was a small undercurrent of pity for himself. The lover is seldom wholly unselfish. He forgets that the cold truth is usually out of place in a declaration of intense passion.
"You have never had to live without: money, dearest. I have. It is only natural that
