‘Morning, old thing,’ said Jane to Clare, uncovering her typewriter without haste and yawning, because she had been up late last night.

‘Morning,’ Clare yawned too.  She was warm and pretty, in a spring costume, with a big bunch of sweet violets at her waist.  She touched these.

’Aren’t they top-hole.  Mr. Hobart left them this morning before he went.  Jolly decent of him to think of it, getting off in a hurry like he was....  He’s not a bad young thing, do you think.’

‘Not so bad.’  Jane extracted carbons from a drawer and fitted them to her paper.  Then she stretched, like a cat.

’Oh, I’m sleepy....  Don’t feel like work to-day.  For two pins I’d cut it and go out with you and mother.  The sun’s shining, isn’t it?’

Clare stood by the window, and swung the blind-tassel.  They had five days of Paris before them, and Paris suddenly seemed empty....

‘We’re going to have a topping week,’ she said.

Then Lord Pinkerton came in.

‘Hobart gone?’ he asked Jane.

‘Yes.’

‘Majendie in my room?’

‘Yes.’

Lord Pinkerton patted Clare’s shoulder as he passed her.

‘Send Miss Hope in to me when she comes, Babs,’ he said, and disappeared through the farther door.

Jane began to type.  It bored her, but she was fairly proficient at it.  Her childhood’s training stood her in good stead.

’Mr. Hobart must have run his train pretty fine, if he came in here on the way,’ said Clare, twirling the blind-tassel.

‘He wasn’t going till twelve,’ said Jane, typing.

’Oh, I see.  I thought it was ten....  I suppose he found he couldn’t get that one, and had to see dad first.  What a bore for him....  Well, I’m off to meet mother.  See you this evening, I suppose.’

Clare went out into Paris and the March sunshine, whistling softly.

That night she lay awake in her big bed, as she had lain last night.  She lay tense and still, and stared at the great gas globe that looked in through the open window from the street.  Her brain formed phrases and pictures.

’That day on the river....  Those Sundays....  That lunch at the Florence....  “What attractive shoes those are."...  My gray suedes, I had....  “I love these Sunday afternoons."...  “You’re one of the few girls who are jolly to watch when they run."...  “Just you and me; wouldn’t it be rather nice?  I should like it, anyhow."...  He kept looking....  Whenever I looked up he was looking.... his eyes awfully blue, with black edges to them....  Peggy said he blacked them....  Peggy was jealous because he never looked at her....  I’m jealous now because ...  No, I’m not, why should I be?  He doesn’t like fat girls, he said....  He watches her....  He looks at her when there’s a joke....  He bought me violets, but he went to see her....  He keeps coming over to Paris....  I never see him....  I don’t get a chance....  He