'5 s THE STRAND 
he stooped anxiously to see if indeed it were 
to hide a smile. She said nothing. 
. “ You speak English awfully well,” he con- 
tinued, “ but you are French, aren’t you ? ” 
“I am French,” she assented. “ I have 
just returned from what you call a boarding- 
school in Brussels. We always spoke English 
there.” 
“ And now ? ” 
She motioned with her parasol. 
^ “ I live in the valley there,” she told him. 
‘ k It is— a little dull. That is why, I suppose, 
T permit myself to talk with you. My father 
is an invalid, who rises only for two hours a 
day, and there is no one else. But your 
automobile returns. You know the way to 
Cannes, and you must go.” 
The car had slipped slowly back in the 
reverse until it had stopped almost by their 
side. An older man was leaning" back 
amongst the cushions, a man whose hair was 
turning grey at the temples and whose eyes 
were tired. He looked out upon the two with 
a faintly sardonic smile. The girl returned 
his gaze with frank curiosity, and his expres- 
sion gradually changed. For all his cynicism, 
Maurice Londe had a soul for beauty. The 
girl, with her neatly-braided hair, her ex- 
quisitely undeveloped figure, her clear com- 
plexion, her large, soft eyes, her general air 
of sweet and spotless childhood, was immensely 
and irresistibly attractive. 
“ This is my friend — Londe,” the boy said, 
with a wave of the hand. “ My name’s 
Arthur Maddison. 1 say, couldn’t we per- 
suade you to come just a little way with us ? 
You don’t seem to have much to do with 
yourself, and we’ll bring you safely back.” 
Felice looked longingly along the road. 
She pointed to where it disappeared in the 
distance around a vineyard-covered hillside. 
To her that disappearance was allegorical. 
“ Farther than that,” she sighed, “ I have 
never been.” 
“ Come with us to Cannes for lunch,” the 
boy begged. “ We’ll bring you back. Do ! 
It’s only an hour’s run.” 
She looked wistfully at the cushioned seats. 
The boy was already taking off his motor- 
coat. 
“ But — I have no hat,” she protested. 
“ We’ll buy you one,” he laughed. 
“ I have no money ! ” 
“ It shall be our joint present,” he persisted, 
holding out the coat. “ Come. We’ll take 
great care of you, and we’ll have a splendid 
time. You shall hang the hat in your ward- 
robe to remind you of this little excursion.” 
She sat between them and the car started. 
MAGAZINE . 
To her it was like an enchanted journey. 
When they began to climb she held her 
breath with the wonder of it — the road wind- 
ing its way to dizzy heights above; the 
vineyards like patchwork in the valley below ; 
the mountains in the background, gigantic^ 
snow-capped ; Cannes, white and glistening 
with its mimosa-embosomed villas, in the 
far distance. 
“ Oh, but it is wonderful to travel like 
this ! ” she murmured. “ What beautiful 
places you must see ! ... If you please ! ” 
She withdrew her fingers quickly from 
beneath the rug. She seemed scarcely to 
notice the boy’s clumsy attempts at flirta- 
tion. The light of worship was in her eyes 
as she looked towards the mountains. The 
boy felt the presence of something which he 
did not understand, and he began to sulk. 
Maurice Londe frowned slightly, and for the 
first time made some efforts at polite con- 
versation. And so they reached Cannes. 
They bought the hat, for which she let the 
boy pay, although the fact obviously dis- 
composed her. She carefully chose the least 
expensive, although one of the prettiest in 
the shop. At the Casino the boy, whose 
further efforts at primitive flirtation had 
been gravely, almost wonderingly, repulsed, 
began to tire a little of his adventure. He 
spent much of his time paying visits to 
neighbouring tables, and made the acquaint- 
ance of a dazzling young person in yellow, 
from Paris, who kept him a good deal by her 
side. It was Maurice Londe, after all, who 
had to entertain their little guest. 
Afterwards, when they had walked outside 
for some time upon the little quay and the 
boy failed to rejoin them, Londe made some 
sort of apologies for his companion, to which 
she listened with a little shrug of the 
shoulders. 
“ So long as it does not weary you, mon- 
sieur,” she said, softly, “ I am content. I 
think that Mr. Arthur Maddison is rather a 
spoilt boy, is it not so ? ” 
“ Perhaps,” his older friend admitted. 
“ Tell me some more, please, about the 
countries you have visited,” she begged. 
“ But one moment. Let us watch the people 
land from this little steamer.” 
“ Trippers,” Londe murmured, with a 
glance towards them. “ An excursion from 
somewhere, I should think.” 
She clutched at his arm. A short, fat man, 
with bristling black hair and moustache, 
descended suddenly upon them. He ad- 
dressed Felice with an avalanche of questions. 
Londe fell a few paces behind. When she 
