he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing the number six.
Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.
The garçon bowed her in and whispering, “will Monsieur have the goodness to ring,” vanished.
He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite, she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Waiting,” he replied, in accents of adoration.
For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then, its depths reflected her pretty neck and back. “Thus do I turn my back on vanity,” she said, and then leaning forward again, “what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.
“And Cécile.”
“Now don't, Valentine———”
“Do you know,” she said calmly, “I dislike your conduct?”
He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion.
The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.
“Valentine,” said Clifford, after having ob-
