Then looking up at the marble god, "I don't
care for this one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot his
arrows--no, indeed, he is a coward;--he creeps up like an assassin in the
twilight. I don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and turned her
back on the statue. "I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly--yes, and
even gives one warning." "Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?" He looked straight into her eyes and said, "He is warning me." "Heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke she
stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on
again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying,
"Oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled it, and
finally looked at him. "No," he said, "I shall not heed his warning." "Oh dear," she sighed again, "still talking about that tiresome statue!" Then stealing a glance at his face, "I suppose--I suppose you are in
love." "I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am." She raised her head with a quick gesture. "You seem delighted at the
idea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then
sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering
shadows. "Are you cold?" he said. But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is late--so late! I must
go--good-night." She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start. "What is it?" he insisted. "Are you frightened?" She looked at him strangely. "No--no--not frightened,--you are very good to me--"

"By Jove!" he burst out, "what do you mean by saying I'm good to you? That's at least the third time, and I don't understand!" The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short. "Listen," she whispered, "they are going to close. It's late, oh, so
late!" The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of
the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light
lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the
shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the
eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness
when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western
terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the echoes struck
back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up
before them--his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the
brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettes
tossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the crash of the drum in their
ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining
on his haversack. Then the sentinels began the monotonous cry: "On ferme! on ferme!" and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de Tournon. "On ferme! on ferme!" "Good-night," she whispered, "I must return alone to-night." He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down
on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonets
warned him away. She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici,
traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of violets
and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des Écoles. A cab was drawn
up before Boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott jumped out. "Valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!" "I can't," she said, stopping a moment--"I have a rendezvous at Mignon's." "Not Victor?" cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little
shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain,
she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the Café
Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant Mignon
stood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as she
mounted the carpeted stairs. "Send Eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through the
hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelled
doors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, who
presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "Madame." "Who is here?" "No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and Monsieur
Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set." Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "Monsieur awaits madame
since half an hour," and 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 obtained permission to smoke, "is
it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado--or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or--"

"It is here," said Valentine. "Well," he said, greatly flattered, "I'm afraid I couldn't amuse you--"

"Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado." "Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,--you know
what they say,--a good laugh kills--"

"What?" "Er--er--love and all that." She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "Tiens," she cried, "he
is dead, then!" Clifford eyed her with growing alarm. "Do you know why I came?" she said. "No," he replied uneasily, "I don't." "How long have you made love to me?" "Well," he admitted, somewhat startled,--"I should say,--for about a
year." "It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?" He did not answer. "Don't you know that I like you too well to--to ever fall in love with
you?" she said. "Don't you know that we are too good comrades,--too old
friends for that? And were we not,--do you think that I do not know your
history, Monsieur Clifford?" "Don't be--don't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind, Valentine." "I'm not. I'm kind. I'm very kind,--to you and to Cécile." "Cécile is tired of me." "I hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate.