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THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
Londe drew a little breath. Her words 
seemed to ring in the sunlit air. 
“ But the thing is preposterous ! ” he 
exclaimed, indignantly. 
“ We are very, very poor/’ she continued, 
under her breath, “ and Monsieur Arleman is 
rich. He has an hotel and much land. He 
has promised my father an annuity, and my 
father says that one must live.” 
Once more they drew close to the front of 
the Casino. In the distance they saw the boy 
with the young lady in yellow, on their way 
towards the shops. lie was bending over her, 
and his air of devotion was unmistakable. 
“ He has forgotten all about me,” Felice 
sighed . “I hope — there won’t be any trouble, 
will there, about my getting back ? Not 
that I mind much, after all.” 
She looked at Londe a little timidly. It 
seemed to him that he had grown younger, 
had passed somehow into a different world, 
with different standpoints, a different code. 
The things which had half automatically 
presented themselves to his brain were 
strangled before they were fully conceived. 
“ There shall be no trouble at all,” he 
assured her. “ I shall take you back myself 
now. Perhaps it is better.” 
They got into the waiting car and Londe 
gave the man his orders. Soon they were 
rushing back once more towards the hills, on 
the other side of which was her home. 
“ You are very silent,” she murmured 
once. 
He turned towards her. 
“ I was thinking about you,” he replied ; 
“ you and your little pink and white house 
amongst the hills, and your father, and 
Monsieur Arleman. It is a queer little 
chapter of life, you know.” 
“ To you,” she sighed, “ it must seem so 
very, very trivial. And yet, when I wake in 
the mornings and the thought comes to me 
of Monsieur Arleman, then life seems sud- 
denly big and awful. 1 feel as though I must 
go all round, stretching out my hands, seek- 
ing some place in which to hide. I feel,” 
she added, as her fingers sought his half 
fearfully and her voice dropped almost to a 
whisper/* that there isn’t any way of escape 
in the whole world which I would not take.” 
Londe made no response. The appeal of 
her lowered voice, her wonderful eyes, seemed 
in vain. He was an adventurer, a hardened 
man of the world, whose life, when men spoke 
of it, they called evil ; but his weak spot was 
discovered. He sat and thought steadily 
for the girl’s sake, and at the end of it all he 
saw nothing. 
“ Perhaps,” he suggested, “ this Monsieur 
Arleman is not so bad when one knows him. 
If one is kind and generous ” 
She looked at him reproachfully. 
“ Monsieur,” she replied, “ he is bourgeois , 
he drinks, he is old. His presence disgusts me.” 
Once more Londe was silent. The sheer 
futility of words oppressed him. They were 
climbing the hills now. The patchwork land 
was unwinding itself below. Only a few 
more turns, and they would be within sight 
of her home. Then, because he was a man 
who throughout his life had had his own way, 
and because there were limits to his endurance, 
he changed, for a moment, his tone. 
(t Little girl,” he said, “ if I were free I 
think that I should take you away, just as 
you are, in this car, on and on to some place 
at the end of the road. Would you rather 
have me for a husband than Monsieur 
Arleman ? ” 
She said nothing, but she had begun to 
tremble. He felt the instinctive swaying of 
her body towards him. He laid his hand 
upon hers. 
“ It was wrong of me to ask you the 
question,” he continued, “ because, you see, 
I am not free. I have not seen my wife for 
years. I am not a reputable person. If you 
met with those who understood, they would 
pity that boy for his companion, and they 
would be right. They would tremble for you, 
and they would be right. So, Mile. Felice, 
I cannot help you.” 
“ You have helped me, and you will help 
me always,” she whispered, her eyes filled 
with tears. “ You will help me with what 
you have said — with the memory of to-day.” 
Then again there was silence. They were 
at the top of the hill now, and below them the 
sun-bathed landscape stretched like a carpet 
of many colours to the foot of those other 
hills. Her fingers tightened a little upon his. 
“ When you asked me that question — when 
you said that you would have married me 
yourself,” she continued, hesitatingly, “ does 
that mean that you could care just a little ? ” 
Londe was only human. He leaned over, 
and she stole very quietly into his arms. She 
lay there for a moment quite passive. Then 
he kissed her lips once. 
“ I always prayed,” she whispered, as he 
set her down at the corner of the lane, “ that 
love might come like this.” 
Londe and his youthful companion went 
on to Monte Carlo, where for a week or so 
they had the usual reckless time. Then 
suddenly the former pulled up. He strode 
