14 
THE GUEST 
OF QUESNAY 
By Booth Tarkington 
Copyright, 1908, by the McClure Company 
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by the Ridgway Company 
(CONTINUED. ] 
“He told Ferret that you were very 
anxious not to have it known— You 
think Louise very lovely to look at, 
don’t you?” she asked. 
“Exquisite,” 1 answered. 
“Every one does.” 
“T suppose she told you”—and now 
I felt myself growing red—“that I be- 
haved like a drunken acrobat when 
she came upon me in the path?” 
“No. Did you?’ cried Miss Eliza- 
beth, with a ready credulity which | 
thought by no means pretty. “Louise 
said that she wished she could have 
had a better look at what you were 
painting.” 
“Heaven bless her!’ I exclaimed. 
“Her reticence was angelic.” 
“Yes, she has reticence,” said my 
companion, with enough of the same 
quality to make me look at her quick- 
ly. A thin line had been drawn across 
her forehead. 
“You mean she’s still reticent with 
George?” I ventured. 
“Yes,” she answered sadly. “Poor 
George always hopes, of course, in the 
Silent way of his kind when they suf- 
fer from such unfortunate passions, 
and he waits.” 
“I suppose that former husband of 
hers recovered.” 
“I believe he’s still alive somewhere. 
Locked up. I hope!’ she finished 
crisply. 
“She retained his name,” I observed. 
“Harman? Yes; she retained it. At 
all events she’s rid of him.” 
“It’s hard,’ I reflected aloud—“hard 
to understand her making that mis- 
take, young as she was. Even in the 
glimpse of her I’ve had it was easy 
to see something of what she’s like—a 
fine, rare, high type.” 
“But you didn’t know him, did you?” 
Miss Elizabeth asked, with some dry- 
ness, 
“No,” I answered. “I saw him twice 
—once at the time of his accident—that 
was only a nightmare, his face cover- 
ed with”’— I shivered. “But I had 
caught a glimpse of him on the boule- 
vard, and of all the dreadful”— 
“Oh, but he wasn’t always dreadful,” 
she interposed quickly. “He was a 
fascinating sort of person, quite charm- 
ing and good looking, when she ran 
away with him, though he was horri- 
bly dissipated even then. He always 
had been that. Of course she thought 
she’d be able to straighten him out. 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
poor girl: ne tried for three ‘years— 
three years it burts one to think of! 
You see, it must have been something 
very like a ‘grand passion’ to hold her 
through a pain three years long.” 
“Or tremendous pride,” said 1. “Wo- 
men make an odd world of it for the 
rest of us. There was gocd old George, 
as true and straight a man as ever 
lived’’— 
“And she took the other! Yes.” 
George’s sister laughed sorrowfully. 
“But George and she bave both sur- 
vived the mistake,” I went on, with 
confidence. “Her tragedy must have 
taught her some important differences. 
Haven’t you a notion she'll be tremen- 
dously glad to see him when he comes 
back from America?” 
“Ah, I do hope so!’ she cried. “You 
see, I’m fearing that he hopes so, too— 
to the degree of counting on it.” 
“You don't count on it yourself?’ 
She shook her head. “With any oth- 
er woman I should.” 
“Why not with Mrs. Harman?’ 
“Cousin Louise has her ways.” said 
Miss Elizabeth slowly. and. whether 
she could not further explain her 
doubts or whether she would not. that 
was all I got out of her on the subject 
at the time. I asked cne or two more 
questions, but my companion merely 
shook her head again, alluding vaguely 
to her cousin’s “ways.” Then she 
brightened suddenly and _ inquired 
when I would have my things sent up 
to the chateau from the inn. 
At the risk of a misunderstanding 
which I felt I could ill afford | resist- 
1d her kind hospitality, and the out- 
tome of it was that there should be a 
tind of armistice, to begin with my 
lining at the chateau that evening. 
“Did anybody ever tell you,” was her 
surprising inquiry, “that you are the 
queerest man of these times?’ 
“No,” I answered. “Don’t you think 
you’re a queerer woman?” 
“Footle!” she cried scornfully. ‘Be 
eff to your woods and your woodscap- 
Ing!” 
Her bay horse departed at a smart 
Fait. 
My work was accomplished after a 
fashion more or less desultory that 
flay. I had many absent moments, 
was restless and walked more than I 
painted and returned to the inn earlier 
than usual. 
While dressing I sent word to Pro- 
fessor Keredec that I should not be 
able to join him at dinner that evening. 
Miss Elizabeth had the courage to 
take me under her wings when I ar- 
rived in acceptance of her invitation, 
placing me upon her left at dinuer, but 
sprightlier calls than mine demanded 
and occupied her attention. At my oth- 
er side sat a magnificently upholstered 
lady who offered a fine shoulder and 
the rear wall of a collar of pearls for 
my observation throughout the evening 
as she leaned forward talking eagerly 
with a male personage across the ta- 
ble. This was a prince ending in “ski.” 
He permitted himself the slight vagary 
of wearing 4 gold bracelet, and per- 
hans this flavor of romance drew the 
lady. 
The banquet was drawing to a close 
when Miss Blizabeth leaned toward 
me and spoke. 
“Anne Elliott, yonder, is asking you 
a question,” she repeated, nodding at 
“Who and what is the glorious stran- 
ger?” she asked. 
a very pretty girl down and across the 
table from me. Miss Anne Hlliott’s at- 
tractive voice had previously enabled 
me to recognize her as the young wo- 
man who had threatened to serenade 
Les Trois Pigeons. 
. “I beg your pardon,” I said, address- 
ing her. 
“T hear you're at Les Trois Pigeons,” 
said Miss Elliott. 
“Yes?” 
“Would you mind telling us some- 
thing of the mysterious Narcissus?” 
“If you'll be more definite,” I return- 
ed in the tone of a question. 
“T mean a recklessly charming vision 
with a white tie and white hair and 
white flannels,” she said. 
“Oh,” said I, “he’s not mysterious.” 
“But he is,” she returned. ‘I insist 
on his being mysterious, rarely, grand- 
ly, strangely mysterious! You will 
let me think so?’ This young lady 
had a whimsical manner of emphasiz- 
ing words unexpectedly, with a breath- 
less intensity that approached violence, 
a habit dangerously contagious among 
nervous persons, so that I answered 
slowly out of a fear that I might echo 
it. 
“He’s a young American, very at- 
tractive, very simple.” 
“But he’s mad!” she interrupted. 
“Oh, no!” I said hastily. hecrte 
“Rut he is! A person told me so in 
Sree sne 
te nerson With a 
rake and moles ov his 
- S me all about 
. :. saffren, and 
he's in till very large doc- 
tor anq a” 
rdever,” | said 
enom, “iS fast 
ec duirigg these parts as 
eo ‘diol aud be had his 
her whose con- 
very hour more 
“How 
Ny 
Elliott, 
“when | 4 
ha; Pines 
u." cried Miss 
reproach, 
a thrilling 
ing that 
ature mad! If 
have ap enor- 
mous oct ” 
mg! retorted. “The 
doctor jg eredec, illustri- 
ously kno ry, but not 
AS 2 physiiiey are following 
Some forg He research to- 
gether,” 
my 
ne wind 
nllowing y 
Elizabeth i 
the prince, 
Mrs. Harn 
was 
with the y 
en thrown open, 
yeranda. Miss 
outdoors with 
final glimpse of 
pyealed that she 
ith tensity, but 
of intervening 
$s Elliott point- 
il | came round 
id me definitely 
ompanying her 
smile. 
fere waiting on 
© 
= 
=o 4 
2. 
= 
: bw, with a big 
moon risi y. I descended 
the steps il his pretty cay- 
alier, ¢ Seat me at the 
most remotimiibles and accepted 
without wiggisother galtantries 
of hers intHM@t coffee and cig- 
arettes. © She said—“now 
that I’ve dumm@h for your dear- 
est hopes a look up at the 
milly moolgiiam@e all,” 
She lea on the marble 
railing that he terrace and, 
shiciding HM the moonlight 
with her Wd to gaze at me 
dramaticaljiand what is the 
glorious st asked 
Resisting € to chime in 
with het MMM@ve her so dry 
and com account of ‘my 
“y don't ¥ © to go,” she 
complained “These other 
people ae’ | to a girl of 
my intelli@eennot linger by 
your sid@ Hes 220 lost its 
interest fUMPreter to believe 
Mr. Jea "MMB is the gentle. 
man’s 0M’ 'Ss Ward and 
Cressie iy » but Cressie 
would be WMMEBhall soothe my 
burt with® 4 Adieu.” 
witb tht he a solemn 
courtesy ™ & pretty little 
figure, 00 MMectiveness, the 
strong Mat bio With blue, 
shimme nd hair and 
-to me. 
that | present- _ 
splasning orignuy among te ripples 
of her silks and laces. A moment later 
some chords were sounded upon a 
piano, which ran on into “La Vie de 
Boheme” and out of that into some- 
thing else. 1 was floated off into a 
reverie that was like a prelude for the 
person who broke it. She came so 
quietly that I did not hear her until 
she was almost beside me and spoke 
It was the second time that 
had happened. 
CHAPTER VII. 
66 RS. HARMAN,” I said as 
she took the chair vacated 
by the elfin young lady, 
“you remember my wood- 
land didos, I fear?” 
She smiled in a pleasant, compre- 
hending way, but neither directly re- 
plied nor made any return speech 
whatever. Instead she let her fore- 
arms rest on the broad railing of the 
marble balustrade and, leaning for- 
ward, gazed out over the shining and 
mysterious slopes below. 
“Mr. Cresson Ingle,” 1 hazarded, “‘is 
he an old, new friend of your cousins? 
I think he was not above the horizon 
when I went to Capri two years ago.” 
“He wants Elizabeth.’ she returned, 
adding quietly, “as you’ve seen.” And 
when I had verified this assumption 
with a monosyllable she continued, 
“THe’s an ‘available,’ but 1 should hate 
to have it happen. He’s hard.” 
“He doesn’t seem very bard toward 
her,’’ I murmured, looking down into 
the arden where Mr. Ingle just then 
happened to be adjusting a scarf about 
his hostess’ shoulders. 
“He’s led a detestable life,” said 
Mrs. Harman, “among detestable peo- 
ple.’’ 
“He seems to me much of a type 
with these others,” I said. 
“Oh. they keep their surfaces about 
the same!” 
‘Tt made me wish 1 had a little 
more surface tonight,” 1 laughed. 
“T’d have fitted better. Miss Ward 
is different at different times. When 
we are alone together she always has 
the air of excusing or at least ex- 
plaining these people to me, but this 
evening I’ve had the disquieting 
thought that perhaps she also explain- 
ed me to them.” 
“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Harman, turn- 
ing to me quickly. ‘Didn’t you see? 
She was making up to Mr. Ingle for 
this morning. It came oft that she’d 
ridden over at daylight to see you. 
Aune Elliott discovered it in some way 
and told him.’ 
“I suppose she finished her investi- 
gations. You told her all you could?” 
‘*Almost.”’ 
“IT suppose you wouldn’t trust me 
with the reservation?’ she asked, 
Smiling. ; 
“T would trust you with anything,” I 
answered seriously. 
“You didn’t gratify that child?’ she 
said, half laughing. Then, to my sur- 
prise, her tone changed suddenly, and 
She began again in a hurried low 
Voice, “You didn’t’ tell her’— and 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
stopped tnere, preatniess ana troupied, 
letting me see that I had been right 
after all. This was what she wanted 
to talk about. 
“I didn’t tell her that young Saffren 
is mad—no—if that is what you mean.” 
“I'm glad you didn’t,” she said 
slowly. , 
“In the first place, I wouldn't have 
told here even if it were true,” I re- 
turned, “and in the second it isn’t 
true, though you have some reason to 
think it is,” I added. 
“1?” she said. “‘Why?” 
“His speaking to you as he did, a 
thing on the face of it inexcusable.” 
“Why did he call me ‘Mme. d’Ar- 
mand?” she interposed. 
I explained something of the mental 
processes of Amedee, and she listeved 
till I had finished, then bade me con- 
tinue. 
“That’s all,” I said blankly, but with 
fn second thought caught her meaning. 
“Oh, about young Saffren, you mean?” 
“Vas.” 
“I know him pretty well.” I said, 
“without really knowing anything 
about*him; but, what is stranger, 1 be- 
lieve he doesn't really know a great 
deal about himself. My idea is that 
probably through some great illness he 
lost not his faculty of memory, but his 
memories, or at least most of them. 
That's all, except that there’s some- 
thing about the young man that draws 
one to him. I couldn’t tell you how 
much IT like him nor bow sorry | am 
that he offended you.” 
“He didn’t offend me,” she murmur- 
ed, almost whispered. 
“He didn’t mean to,” I said warmly. 
“Tam glad you understand that.” 
“TI saw him today.” she said gently. 
“This afternoon when I went for my 
walk he was waiting where the paths 
pitersect”— 
Some hasty ejaculation, I do not 
know what, came from me, but she 
lifted her hand. 
“Wait,” she said quietly. ‘“‘As soon 
as he saw me he came straight to- 
ward me’— 
“Oh, but this won’t do at all!” I 
broke out. “It’s too bad”’— 
“Wait.” She leaned forward. “He 
Said he must know if he had offend- 
ed me.” 
“You told him’— 
“I told him ‘No”” And it seemed to 
me that her voice, which up to this 
point had been low, but very steady, 
shook upon the monosyllable. “He 
walked with me a little way—perhaps | 
it was longer’— 3 
“Trust me that it sha’n’t happen 
again!” I exclaimed. “I’ll see that 
Keredec knows of this at once. He 
will’ — 
“No, no,” she interrupted quickly. 
“That is just what I want you not to 
do. Will you promise me?” 
*“T’ll promise anything you ask me. 
But didn’t he frighten you?” 
“He didn’t frighten me—not as you 
mean. He was very quiet and’— She 
broke off unexpectedly with a little 
pitying cry and turned to. me, lifting © 
both hands appealingly, “And, oh, 
15 
doesn’t ne make one sorry for nim?” 
That was just it. She had gone 
straight to the heart of his mystery; 
his strangeness was the strange pathos 
that invested him; the “singularity” of 
“that other monsieur’’ was solved for 
me at last. 
When she had spoken she rose, ad- 
vanced a step and stood looking out 
over the valley again, her skirts press- 
ing the balustrade. One of the mo- 
ments in my life when | have wished 
to be a figure painter came then as she 
raised her arms, the sleeves, of some 
filmy texture, falling back from them 
with the gesture, and clasped her hands 
lightly behind her neck, the graceful 
angle of her chin uplifted to the full 
rain of moonshine. 
She stood in profile to me. There 
were some jasmine flowers at her 
breast. | could see them rise and fall 
with more than deep breathing. 
“] haven’t had my life. It’s gone!” 
‘It was almost as if | heard his voice 
close at hand with all the passion of 
regret and protest that rang in the 
words when they broke from him in 
the forest. And by some miraculous 
conjecture within the moment | seem- 
ed not only to hear his voice, but actu- 
ally to see him, a figure dressed ip 
white, far below us and small with the 
distance, standing out in the moonlight 
in the middle of the tree bordered ave- 
nue leading to the chateau gates. 
{TO BE CONTINUED.] 
‘ Mean. 
“What beautiful hair!’ 
“Whose? Mrs. Brown's?” 
“Yes.” 
“Her taste and selection in such 
things are perfect.” 
Into Worse Hands, 
“IT am going to disarm the critics.” 
“How?” 
“By not doing anything.” 
“Just wait till the gossips hear about 
you.” 
Little, But— 
It isn’t always size that counts. 
Bulk doesn’t have the call. 
A bumblebee, it cuts some ice 
Although it is so small, 
Give Them a Change. 
“He has a scheme to rob war of all 
fts terrors.” 
“How is he going to do it?” 
“Let only married men enlist.” 
Good In Both Trades. 
“Young Skidoo is a regular cut-up.” 
“Ts he?” 
“You bet.’ 
“Butcher or tailor?” 
Some Speed. 
“How did you come over?” 
“In my aeroplane.” 
“Yes, like thunder,” 
“No, like lightning.” 
Great Attraction. 
These Yankee girls, as you observe, 
To dukes whose funds are low 
Are simply irresistible Bas 
If pa has got the dough, 
