She looked at me, her face at first all perplexity; gradually the light broke upon her.

“Simple, wasn’t it?” I murmured.

“Then the jewels are not stolen?”

“Certainly not.  The jewels are in my pockets.  If you recollect, I said it was the jewel-case that was stolen.”

I began to smile.

“Mr. Foster,” she said, smiling too, “I am extremely angry.”

“Forgive the joke,” I entreated.  “Perhaps it is a bad one—­but I hope not a very bad one, because very bad jokes are inexcusable.  And here are your jewels.”

I put on the expression of a peccant but hopeful schoolboy, as I emptied one pocket after another of the scintillating treasures.  The jewels lay, a gorgeous heap, on her lap.  The necklace which she had particularly mentioned was of pearls.  There were also rubies and emeralds, upon which she seemed to set special store, and a brooch in the form of a butterfly, which she said was made expressly for her by Lalique.  But not a diamond in the collection!  It appeared that she regarded diamonds as some men regard champagne—­as a commodity not appealing to the very finest taste.

“I didn’t think you were so mischievous,” she laughed, frowning.

To transfer the jewels to her possession I had drawn my chair up to hers, and we were close together, face to face.

“Ah!” I replied, content, unimaginably happy.  “You don’t know me yet.  I’m a terrible fellow.”

“Think of my state of mind during the last fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, but think of the joy which you now experience.  It is I who have given you that joy—­the joy of losing and gaining all that in a quarter of an hour.”

She picked up the necklace, and as she gazed at the stones her glance had a rapt expression, as though she were gazing through their depths into the past.

“Mr. Foster,” she said at length, without ceasing to look at the pearls, “I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are in Paris.  Shall you stay till I have appeared at the Opera Comique?”

“I was hoping to, and if you say you would like me to—­”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I do.”  And she looked up.

Her lovely eyes had a suspicion of moisture.  The blood rushed through my head, and I could feel its turbulent throb-throb across the temples and at my heart.

I was in heaven, and residence in heaven makes one bold.

“You really would like me to stay?” I almost whispered, in a tone that was equivalent to a declaration.

Her eyes met mine in silence for a few instants, and then she said, with a touch of melancholy: 

“In all my life I’ve only had two friends—­I mean since my mother’s death; and you are the third.”

“Is that all?”

“You don’t know what a life like mine is,” she went on, with feeling.  “I’m only a prima donna, you know.  People think that because I can make as much money in three hours as a milliner’s girl can make in three years, and because I’m always in the midst of luxuries, and because I have whims and caprices, and because my face has certain curves in it, and because men get jealous with each other about kissing my hand, that therefore I’ve got all I want.”