In the Quarter

A slight impatient movement of the head.

``Good night.'' Gethryn rose. ``Good night,'' he repeated. He waited for a moment. ``Good night, Yvonne,'' he said, for the third time.

She turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child.

``Good night,'' he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. She looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. The golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart.

``You will wear it?'' she whispered.

``Yes.''

``Then – good night.''

Half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. And all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep.

Six

It was the first day of June. In the Luxembourg Gardens a soft breeze stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across the water in the Fountain of Marie de Medicis.

The modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy, from his long winter's sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of last season's brilliant debut.

Through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the Palais du Sénat, and almost warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the Palace of the King.

Through every gate the people drifted into the gardens, and the winding paths were dotted and crowded with brightly-colored, slowly-moving groups.

Here a half dozen meager, black-robed priests strolled silently amid the tender verdure; here a noisy crowd of children, gamboling awkwardly in the wake of a painted rubber ball, made day hideous with their yells.

Now a slovenly company of dragoons shuffled by, their big shapeless boots covered with dust, and their whalebone plumes hanging in straight points to the middle of their backs; now a group of strutting students and cocottes passed noisily, the girls in spotless spring plumage, the students vying with each other in the display of blinking eyeglasses, huge bunchy neckties, and sleek checked trousers. Policemen, trim little grisettes (for whatever is said to the contrary, the grisette is still extant in Paris), nurse girls with turbaned heads and ugly red streamers, wheeling ugly red babies; an occasional stray zouave or turco in curt Turkish jacket and white leggings; grave old gentlemen with white mustache and military step; gay, baggy gentlemen from St Cyr, looking like newly-painted wooden soldiers; students from the Ecole Polytechnique; students from the Lycée St Louis in blue and red; students from Julien's and the Beaux Arts with a plentiful sprinkling of berets and corduroy jackets; and group after group of jingling artillery officers in scarlet and black, or hussars and chasseurs in pale turquoise, strolled and idled up and down the terrace, or watched the toy yachts braving the furies of the great fountain.

Over by the playgrounds, the Polichinel nuisance drummed and squeaked to an appreciative audience of tender years. The ``Jeu de paume'' was also in full swing, a truly exasperating spectacle for a modern tennis player.

The old man who feeds the sparrows in the afternoon, and beats his wife at night, was intent on the former cheerful occupation, and smiled benevolently upon the little children who watched him, open mouthed. The numerous waterfowl – mallard, teal, red-head, and dusky – waddled and dived and fought the big mouse-colored pigeons for a share of the sparrow's crumbs.

A depraved and mongrel pointer, who had tugged at his chain in a wild endeavor to point the whole heterogeneous mass of feathered creatures from sparrow to swan, lost his head and howled dismally until dragged off by the lean-legged student who was attached to the other end of the chain.

Gethryn, sprawling on a bench in the sunshine, turned up his nose. Braith grunted scornfully.

A man passed in the crowd, stopped, stared, and then hastily advanced toward Gethryn.

``You?'' said Rex, smiling and shaking hands. ``Mr Clifford, this is Mr Bulfinch; Mr Braith,'' – but Mr Bulfinch was already bowing to Braith and offering his hand, though with a curious diminution of his first beaming cordiality. Braith's constraint was even more marked. He had turned quite white. Bulfinch and Gethryn, who had risen to receive him, remained standing side by side, stranded on the shoals of an awkward situation. The little Mirror man made a grab at a topic which he thought would float them off, and laid hold instead on one which upset them altogether.

``I hope Mrs Braith is well. She met you all right at Vienna?''

Braith bowed stiffly, without answering.

Rex gave him a quick look, and turning on his heel, said carelessly:

``I see you and Mr Braith are old acquaintances, so I won't scruple to leave you with him for a moment. Bring Mr Bulfinch over to the music stand, Braith.'' And smiling, as if he were assisting at a charming reunion, he led Clifford away. The latter turned, as he departed, an eye of delighted intelligence upon Braith.

To renew his acquaintance with Mr Bulfinch was the last thing Braith desired, but since the meeting had been thrust upon him he thanked Gethryn's tact for removing such a witness of it as Clifford would have been. He had no intention, however, of talking with the little Mirror man, and maintained a profound silence, smoking steadily. This conduct so irritated the other that he determined to force an explanation of the matter which seemed so distasteful to his ungracious companion. He certainly thought he had his own reasons for resenting the sight of Braith upon a high horse, and he resumed the conversation with all the jaunty ease which the calling of newspaper correspondent is said to cultivate.

``I hope Mrs Braith found no difficulty in meeting you in Vienna?''

``Madame was not my wife, and we did not meet in Vienna,'' said Braith shortly.

Bulfinch began to stare, and to feel a little less at ease.

``She told me – that is, her courier came to me and – ''

``Her courier? Mr Bulfinch, will you please explain what you are talking about?'' Braith turned square around and looked at him in a way that caused a still further diminution of his jauntiness and a proportionate increase of respect.

``Oh – I'll explain, if I know what you want explained. We were at Brindisi, were we not?''

``Yes.''

``On our way to Cairo?''

``Yes.''

``In the same hotel?''

``Yes.''

``But I had no acquaintance with madame, and had only exchanged a word or two with you, when you were suddenly summoned to Paris by a telegram.''

Braith bowed. He remembered well the false dispatch that had drawn him out of the way.

``Well, and when you left you told her you would be obliged to give up going to Cairo, and asked her to meet you in Vienna, whither you would have to go from Paris?''

``Oh, did I?''

``And you recommended a courier to her whom you knew very well, and in whom you had great confidence.''

``Ah! And what was that courier's name?''

``Emanuel Pick. I wasn't fond of Emanuel myself,'' with a sharp glance at Braith's eyes, ``but I supposed you knew something in his favor, or you would not have left – er – the lady in his charge.''

Braith was silent.

``I understood him to be your agent,'' said the little man, cautiously.

``He was not.''

``Oh!''

A long silence followed, during which Mr Bulfinch sought and found an explanation of several things. After a while he said musingly:

``I should like to meet Mr Pick again.''