Three years later, in Paris, on a beautiful spring day after rain, Mary and her relation, Alice Clerc, drove down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne towards the gilded entrance gate. The two had made each other's acquaintance in America, and had met again a year ago in Paris. Alice Clerc lived in Paris now with her father. Mr. Clerc had been the principal dealer in works of art in New York. His wife was a Norwegian lady of the Krog family. After her death he sold his enormous business. The daughter had been brought up in art surroundings, and her art training had been thorough. She had seen the picture-galleries and museums of all countries—had dragged her father as far as Japan. Their house in the Champs ElysÉes was full of works of art. And she had her own studio there; she modelled. Alice was no longer young; she was a stout, strong person, good-natured and lively.

Anders Krog and his companions had this year come from Spain. The two friends were talking of a portrait of Mary which had been sent from Spain to Alice, and afterwards to Norway. Alice maintained that the artist had plainly intended to produce a resemblance to Donatello's St. Cecilia—in the position of the head, in the shape of the eye, in the line of the neck, and the half-open mouth. But, interesting as this experiment might be, it took away from the likeness. It was, for instance, a loss to the portrait that the eyes were not seen; they were cast down, as in Donatello's work. Mary laughed. It was on purpose to have this resemblance brought out that she had sat for it.

Alice now began to talk about a Norwegian engineer officer whom she had known since the days when she went to Norway in summer with her mother. He had seen Mary's portrait at the Clercs' house, and had fallen in love with it.

"Really?" answered Mary absently.

"He is not the ordinary man, I assure you, nor is it the ordinary falling in love."

"Indeed?"

"I am preparing you. You will of course meet at our house." "Is that necessary?"

"Very. At least I shall be made to pay for it if you don't."

"Dear me! is he dangerous?"

Alice laughed: "I find him so, at any rate."

"O ho! that alters the situation."

"Now you are misunderstanding me. Wait till you see him."

"Is he so very good-looking?"

Alice laughed. "No, he is positively ugly. Just wait."

As they drove on, the Avenue became more crowded; it was one of the great days.

"What is his name?"

"Frans RÖy."

"RÖy? That is our lady doctor's name—Miss RÖy."

"Yes, she is his sister, he often talks of her."

"She is a fine-looking woman."

Alice drew herself up. "You should see him. When I walk with him in the street, people turn round to take another look at him. He is a giant! But not of the kind that run to muscle and flesh. No, very tall, agile."

"A trained athlete, I suppose?"

"Magnificent! His strength is what he is proudest of and delights most in displaying." "Is he stupid, then?"

"Stupid? Frans RÖy?——" She leaned back again, and Mary asked no more.

They had been late in setting out. Endless rows of returning carriages passed them. The three broad driving-roads of the Avenue were crowded. The nearer they came to the iron gate where these three meet in one, the more compact did the rows become. The display of light, many-coloured spring costumes on this first day of sunshine after rain was a unique sight. Amongst the fresh foliage the carriages looked like baskets of flowers among green leaves—one behind the other, one alongside of the other, without beginning, without end.

At the iron gate they came close to the undulating crowd of pedestrians. No sooner were they inside than a disturbance communicated itself from right to left. The people on the right must see something invisible to the others. Some of them were screaming and pointing in the direction of the lakes; the carriages were ordered to drive either to the side or into the cross-roads; the agitation increased; it was soon universal. Gendarmes and park-keepers rushed hither and thither; the carriages were packed so closely together that none of them could move on. A broad space in the centre was soon clear for a considerable distance. All gazed, all questioned ... there it came! A pair of frantic horses with a heavy carriage behind them. On the box both coachman and groom were to be seen. There must have been a struggle, since there had been time to clear the way; or else the horses must have bolted a long way off. Up here, inside the gate, all the carriages had disappeared from the central passage. Alice's stood blocked nearest the gate, against the left footpath. They hear shouts behind them; probably the whole Avenue is being cleared. But no one looks that way, all gaze straight ahead, at the magnificent animals that are tearing frantically towards them. Driven by curiosity, the crowds on both sides swayed back and forwards. Terrified voices outside the gate cried: "Shut the gates!" A furious protest, a thousand-voiced jeer, answered them from within. In the carriages every one was standing; many had mounted the seats, Mary and Alice among the number. It seemed as if the horses' pace increased the nearer they came; both coachman and groom were tugging at the reins with might and main, but this only excited them the more. A man wearing a tall hat was leaning his whole body out of the carriage, probably to discover where he was going to break his neck. Some dogs were following, with strenuous protest. Up here they allured others on to the road, but these did not venture far out. Two or three that did, knocked up against each other with such violence that one fell and was run over; the carriage bounded, the dog howled; his comrades stopped for a moment.

Now a man, disengaging himself from the crowd at the iron gate, ran into the middle of the road. People shouted to him; they waved with sticks and umbrellas; they threatened. Two gendarmes ventured out a few steps after him and gesticulated and shouted; a single park-keeper inside the gate did the same, but ran back terrified. Instead of attending to these shouts and threats, the man measured the horses with his eye, moved to the left, to the right, back again to the left ... evidently preparing to throw himself on them.

The moment the crowd comprehended this, it became silent, so silent that the birds could be heard singing in the trees. And heard, too, the dull, distant sound from the giant town, which never ceases, borne hither by the breeze. Its monotonous tone underlay the twitter of the birds. Strange it was, but the horses of the carriages drawn up by the roadside stood as intent as the human beings; they did not stir a foot.

The frantic pair reach the man in the middle of the avenue. He turns with the speed of an arrow in the direction they are going, and runs along with them, flinging himself against the side of the horse next him....

"It is he!" cried Alice, deathly pale, and gripping Mary so violently that they were both on the point of toppling over. Women's screams resounded wild and shrill, the deeper roars of the men following. He was now hanging on to the horse. Alice closed her eyes. Mary turned away. Was he running, or was he being dragged? Stop them he could not!

Again a few seconds of terrible silence; only the dogs and the horses' hoofs were heard. Then a short cry, then thousands, then jubilation, wild, endless jubilation—handkerchiefs waving, and hats and parasols. The crowd burst into the Avenue again from both sides like a flood. The space by the gate was filled in an instant. The frenzied animals stood trembling, in a lather of foam, close to Alice's carriage. Mary saw a grey-clad Englishman, an erect old man with a white beard and a tall hat; she saw a young lady hanging on his arm, and she heard him say: "Well done, young man!" A roar of laughter followed. And not till now did she see him who had evoked it—still gripping the horse's nostrils, hatless, waistcoat torn, hand bleeding, his perspiring, excited face at this moment turned laughingly towards the Englishman. At exactly the same time the man caught sight of Alice, who was still standing on the seat of her carriage. He instantly deserted horses, carriage, Englishman, and forced his way through the crowd towards her.

"Dear people, get me out of this!" he said quickly, in the broadest of "Eastern" Norwegian. Before Alice had time to answer, or even to step down from the seat, and long before the groom could swing himself down from the box, he had opened the carriage door and was standing beside them. He handed first Alice and then her friend down from the seat. Then he said to the coachman in French:

"Drive me home as soon as you can move. You remember the address?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine," replied the coachman, touching his hat respectfully, with a look of admiration.

As Frans RÖy turned to sit down, his face contracted, and he exclaimed, catching hold of his foot: "Oh!——the devil! that brute must have trodden on me. I never felt it till now."

As he spoke, he met Mary's large, astonished eyes; he had not looked at her before, not even when he was assisting her down from the seat. The change in his expression was so sudden and so extremely comical that both ladies burst out laughing. Frans raised his bleeding hand to his hat—and discovered that he had no hat. Then he laughed too.

The coachman had in the meantime manoeuvred them a few yards forwards, and they were beginning to turn.

"I don't suppose I need tell you who she is?" laughed Alice.

"No," answered RÖy, looking so hard at Mary that she blushed.

"Good heavens! Think of your daring to do that!" It was Alice who spoke.

"Oh! It's not so dangerous as it looks," he replied, without taking his eyes off Mary. "There's a trick in it. I've done it twice before." He was speaking to Mary alone. "I saw at once that only one horse had lost its head; the other was being dragged along. So I went for the mad one.—Goodness! what a sight I am!" He had not discovered till now that his waistcoat was in rags, that his watch was gone, and that blood was dripping from his hand. Mary offered him her handkerchief. He looked at the delicate square of embroidery and then at her again: "No, Miss Krog; that would be like stitching birch-bark with silk."

RÖy lived quite near the iron gate, to the right, so they arrived in a few moments. Thanking them heartily, and without offering his bleeding hand, he jumped out. Whilst he limped across the pavement, erect, huge, and the carriage was turning, Alice whispered in English: "If one could only have a model like that, Mary!"

Mary looked at her in surprise: "Well—is it not possible?"

Alice looked back at Mary, still more surprised: "Nude, I mean."

Mary almost started from her seat, then bent forward and looked straight into Alice's face. Alice met her eyes with a teasing laugh.

Mary leaned back and gazed straight in front of her.

On account of the injury to his foot, Frans RÖy had to keep quiet for some days. The first time he called on Alice, Mary, according to agreement, was sent for. But she felt so strangely agitated that she dared not go. Next time curiosity, or whatever the feeling was, brought her. But she came late, and hardly had she looked him in the face again before she wished that she had not come. There was an intensity about him which the fine lady felt to be intrusive, almost insulting. Her whole being was like a surging sea; she followed him with her eyes and with her ears; her thoughts were in a whirl, and so was her blood. This must pass over soon, she thought. But it did not. Alice's entrancement—love, to call it by the right name—audible and visible in every word, every look, added to her confusion. Was he really so ugly? That broad, upright forehead, these small, sparkling eyes, the compressed lips and projecting chin, produced in conjunction an impression of unusual strength; but the face was made comical by there being no nose to speak of. Very comical, too, was most of his conversation. He was in such high spirits and so full of fun and fancies that the rattle never ceased. His manners were not overbearing; on the contrary, he was politeness itself, attentive, at times quite the gallant. What overpowered was his forcefulness. Force spoke in his voice and glanced from his eyes. But the body, too, played its part—the strong hand, the small, foot, compact, the shoulders, the neck, the chest—these spoke too, they insisted, they demonstrated. One could not escape from them for a moment. And the talk never ceased.

Mary was unaccustomed to any style of conversation except that of international society—light talk of wind and weather, of the events of the day, of literature and art, of incidents of travel—the whole at arm's length. Here everything was personal and almost intimate. She felt that she herself acted upon Frans like wine. His intoxication increased; he let himself go more and more. This excited her too much; it gave her a feeling of insecurity. As soon as politeness allowed of it, she took leave, nervous, confused, as a matter of fact in wild retreat. She promised herself solemnly that she would never go back again.

Not until later in the day did she join her father and Mrs. Dawes. She did not say a word about her meeting with Frans RÖy. Nor had she done so on the previous occasion. Mrs. Dawes told her to look at a visiting-card which was lying on the table.

"JÖrgen Thiis? Is he here?"

"He has been here all winter. But he had only just heard of our arrival."

"He asked to be remembered to you," put in Anders, who was, as usual, sitting reading. It was a rest even to think of JÖrgen Thiis. Last winter he and she had seen a good deal of each other in Paris. Both at private houses and at official balls at the ElysÉes and the HÔtel de Ville he had been of their party. He was a squire to be proud of, good-looking, gentlemanly, courteous.

Her father mentioned that JÖrgen was intending to exchange into the diplomatic service.

"Surely money is required for that?" said Mary.

"He is Uncle Klaus's heir," replied Mrs. Dawes.

"Are you certain of this?"

"No, not certain."

"And has not Uncle Klaus lost a good deal of money lately?"

Mrs. Dawes did not answer. Krog said:

"We have heard something to that effect."

"In that case will he be able to help him?"

No one replied.

"Then it does not seem to me that JÖrgen's prospects are particularly good," concluded Mary.

RÖy was in France on special Government business, which often took him away from Paris. He had to go just at this time, so Mary felt safe. But one morning when she made an early call on Alice—the two had arranged to go into town together—there he sat! He jumped up and came towards her, his eyes beaming admiration and delight upon her. He seized her hand in both of his. She had never beheld such radiant happiness. She felt herself turn scarlet. Alice laughed, which made things worse. But Frans RÖy's loquacity came to their assistance. It was excessive to-day even for him. He plunged at once into a description of a gigantic foundry from which he had just come, and drew them along with him. They saw the half-naked men standing with their hooks on the edge of the stream of boiling, bubbling, fiery-red metal; they felt the power of the machinery, and saw the human beings creeping among it like cautious ants in a giant forest. He tried, too, to explain this machinery to them in detail. And he made them understand perfectly; but time wore on, and the two friends had to go.

Alice was in the best of spirits during their drive. It was so evident that Frans had made a strong impression to-day.

On the following morning Mary went off on a motor excursion with some American friends. She was away for several days. And the first thing she did on her return was to call on Alice. There, sure enough, sat Frans RÖy! Both he and Alice jumped up, delighted. Alice embraced and kissed her. "Runaway, runaway!" she exclaimed. It is not enough to say that Frans RÖy's eyes sparkled; they fired a royal salute. From the moment Mary shook hands with him, he talked incessantly. He was so foolishly in love that Alice began to feel alarmed. Fortunately he had to go soon, to keep a business appointment. Mary was left in a stormy swell; the sea would not go down. Alice saw this and tried to calm her by eager, anxious attempts to explain him. But this only further confused her; she left.

As she came downstairs to join her father and Mrs. Dawes in the afternoon—she had felt it necessary to take a rest—she heard piano-playing. She knew at once that it was JÖrgen Thiis who was entertaining the old people. He was a first-rate musician, and he loved their piano. It was to go with them to Norway. She went straight up to him, and thanked him for being so attentive to her father and Aunt Eva; unfortunately they were left much alone. He replied that their appreciation of his music gratified him exceedingly, and that the piano was a great attraction, being a particularly fine instrument.

The conversation during and after dinner showed Mary how accustomed these three were to be together; they could do without her. She felt really grateful, and they had a pleasant evening. There was much talk of home, for which the old people were longing. JÖrgen was hardly gone before Mrs. Dawes said: "What a pleasant, well-bred man JÖrgen is, child!"

Anders looked at Mary and smiled.

"At what are you smiling, Father?"

"Nothing"—his smile growing broader.

"You want to know my opinion of him?"

"Yes, what do you think of him?"

Mrs. Dawes was all ear.

"Well...."

"You have not made up your mind?"

"Yes ... yes."

"Speak out, then."

"I do really like him."

"But there is a something?"

Now it was she who smiled. "I don't like the way his eyes seem to draw me in."

Her father laughed:

"To gloat over you like food. Eh?"

"Yes, exactly."

"He's a bon-viveur, you see—like his father."

"But, like his father, he has so many good qualities," put in Mrs. Dawes.

"He has," said Anders Krog seriously.

Mary said no more. She bade them good-night, and offered him her forehead to kiss.

A few days later Mary went to Alice's house at an early hour. Anders Krog had seen some old Chinese porcelain which he thought of buying; but Alice's advice was indispensable. At this time of day and in the studio Mary could be certain of finding her alone—at least alone with her model.

She went straight in without speaking to the porter. Alice opened the door herself. She had on her studio-dress and her hand was dirty, so that she could not take Mary's.

"You are busy with a model," whispered Mary.

"I shall be presently," answered Alice with a curious smile. "The model is waiting in the next room. But come in."

When Mary passed beyond the curtain she saw the reason why the model was waiting in the next room. In the studio sat Frans RÖy. Thus early in the day and rapt in thought! He did not even notice them entering. This was the first time Mary had seen him serious; and seriousness became the manly figure and the strong face much better than wanton hilarity.

"Do you not see who has come?" asked Alice.

He sprang up....

The conversation that day was serious. Frans was in a dejected mood; it was easy for Mary to divine that they had been talking about her.

They all consequently felt a little awkward at first, until Alice turned the conversation on a topic from that morning's newspapers. Two murders, instigated by jealousy—one of them of the most terrible description—had horrified them all, but especially Frans. He maintained that the idea of the marriage relation peculiar to the Romance nations is still that of the age when the wife was the husband's property, and when, in consequence of this, unfaithfulness was punished by death. Christianity, he allowed, in course of time, also made the husband the wife's property, especially in Roman Catholic countries. In these the spouses rivalled each other in killing—the wife the husband, the husband the wife. This assertion gave rise to an argument. Mary agreed that neither of the contracting parties owned the other. After marriage, as before, they were free individuals, with a right to dispose of themselves. Love alone decided. If love ceased, because development made of one or other a different being from what he or she was at the time of marriage; or if one of them met another human being who took possession of his or her soul and thoughts and changed the whole tenor of life, then the deserted spouse must submit—neither condemn nor kill. But Frans RÖy and she disagreed when they discussed what ought to separate husband and wife—and still more when they came to what ought to keep them together. She was much more exacting than he. He suggested jokingly that her theory was: Married people have full liberty to separate, but this liberty they must not use. She declared his to be: Married people ought as a rule to separate; if they have no real reason, they can borrow one.

This conversation meant more to them than the words implied. It impressed him as a new beauty in her that she was queenly. This cast a new glory over all the rest.

The queenliness did not consist in desire to rule. It was purely self-defence; but the loftiest. Her whole nature was concentrated in it, luminously. "Touch me not!" said eyes, voice, bearing. There was preparedness, undoubtedly, if need were, for the martyr's crown. She became much greater—but also more helpless. Such as she look too high and fall the first step they take. And great is generally their fall.

Frans gazed at her; he forgot to answer, forgot what she had said. He seemed to hear a voice calling: "Protect her!" Chivalry entered into his love, and issued its high behests.

Mary saw him withdraw himself from their conversation; but this did not stop her; the subject was too absorbing. When he came back to it again he heard her divulging her inmost thoughts, undoubtedly with no idea that she was doing so. She told what she had thought ever since she could think on such subjects at all. It came as naturally to her to do so as to lift her dress where the road was dirty, or to swim when she could no longer keep her footing.—Individuality must be preserved, must grow, be neither curbed nor soiled. With this she began, with this she ended. But she was all the time conscious of a curious attraction towards Frans which led her to speak out. It was so long since they had been together. She did not know that the person who can draw forth our thoughts is, in the nature of things, a person who has power over us. She only felt that she was obliged to speak—and to keep control over herself. A sweet feeling, which she experienced for the first time.

The conversation changed into talk which became ever more intimate, and lost itself at last in a silence of looks and long-drawn breaths. Alice had gone to her model. They became confused when they discovered that they were alone. They stopped talking and looked away from each other. After short visits to one and another of the many works of art in the studio, their attention concentrated itself on a faun without arms. It stood laughing at them. They talked about this fragment of antique sculpture merely that there might not be silence. Where had it been found? To what age did it belong? It must surely have been an animal. They spoke in subdued tones, with caressing voices, and unsteady eyes. Nor were their feet steadier. They felt themselves lighter than before, as if they were in higher air. And it seemed to them as if their thoughts lay bare, and they themselves were transparent.

Presently Alice joined them again. She looked at them with eyes that awoke both. "Have you done with marriage now?" she asked. It was about marriage they had been talking when she left them.

Mary remembered that she had an errand, and that her carriage was waiting. Frans RÖy also remembered what he ought to be doing. They went off together, across the court and through the outer gate, to her carriage. But they could not strike the same tone as before, so they did not speak.

Hat in hand, Frans opened the carriage-door. Mary got in without raising her eyes. When, after seating herself, she turned to bow, the strongest eyes she had ever looked into were waiting for her—full of passion and reverence.

Two hours later Frans was with Alice again. He could not remain longer alone with his heaven-storming hopes.

Where had he been in the interval? In town, buying a cast of Donatello's St. Cecilia. He had been obliged to compare. But Alice of course knew, he said, how wretchedly inferior Donatello's Cecilia was.

Alice began to be seriously alarmed. "My dear friend, you will spoil everything for yourself. It is in your nature."

He answered proudly: "Never yet have I seriously set myself an aim which I have not accomplished."

"I quite believe that. You can work, you can overcome difficulties, and you can also wait."

"I can."

"But you cannot suppress yourself; you cannot allow her to come to you."

Frans was hurt. "What do you mean, Alice?"

"I want to remind you, dear friend, that you don't know Mary; you don't know the world she lives in. You are a bear from the backwoods."

"It may be that I am a bear. I don't deny that. But what if she should have become fond of a bear? One is not easily mistaken in such matters."

He would not allow his high hopes to be cast down. He came beseechingly towards her—even tried to embrace her; he was given to hugging.

"Come now, Frans; behave yourself. And remember, this is the second time you have disturbed me."

"You shall be disturbed. You shall not go on modelling your prisoner in there. Dear Alice, my own friend—you shall model my happiness."

"What more can I do for you than I have done?"

"You can procure me admission to the house."

"That is not such an easy matter."

"Bah! You can manage it quite well. You must! you must!"

He talked, coaxed, caressed, until she gave in and promised.

Whatever the reason, her attempt was a failure.

"If I asked my father to receive a young man who has not been introduced to him, he would misunderstand me," said Mary. Alice admitted this at once. She was angry with herself for not having thought of it. Instead of consulting with Mary as to whether the thing might not be managed in another way, she gave up the project altogether. She was still annoyed when she communicated the result to Frans RÖy; she had the feeling, she said, that Mary objected to the interference of any third person. She impressed on him again that he must be careful. Frans was miserable. Alice made no attempt to comfort him.

He came back next day. "I cannot give it up," said he. "And I cannot think of anything else."

So long did he sit there, so often did he repeat exactly the same thing in different words, and so unhappy was he, that good-natured Alice became sorry for him.

"Listen!" she said. "I'll invite you and the Krogs here together. Then perhaps the invitation to their house will come of itself."

He jumped up. "That is a splendid idea! Please do, dear Alice!"

"I can't do it immediately. Mr. Krog is ill. We must wait."

He stood looking at her, much disappointed. "But can you not arrange a meeting between us two again?"

"Yes, that I might do." "Do it then—as soon as possible! dear, dear Alice—as soon as possible!"

This time Alice was successful. Mary was quite ready to meet him again.

They met at Alice's house, to drive together to the exhibition in the Champs ElysÉes.

To stand together before works of art is the real conversation without words. The few words that are spoken awake hundreds. But these remain unspoken. The one friend feels through the other, or at least they both believe that they do so. They meet in one picture, to separate in another. An hour thus spent teaches them more of each other than weeks of ordinary intercourse. Alice led the two from picture to picture, but was absorbed in her own thoughts—the more completely the farther they went. She saw as an artist sees. The others, who began with the pictures, gradually passed on to discovery of each other through these. With them it was soon a play of undertones, rapid glances, short ejaculations, pointing fingers. But those who feel their way to each other by secret paths enjoy the process exceedingly, and generally allow it to be perceived that they do so. They play a game like that of a pair of sea-birds that dive and come up again far away from each other—to find their way back to each other. The happiness of the moment was increased by the number of eyes which were turned on them.

Downstairs amongst the statuary, Alice led them straight to the centre room. She stopped in front of an empty pedestal and turned to the official in charge. "Is the acrobat not ready yet?" "No, Mademoiselle," he answered; "unfortunately not."

"There must have been another accident?"

"I do not know, Mademoiselle."

Alice explained to Mary that the statue of an acrobat had been broken in the process of setting it up.

"An acrobat?" called Frans RÖy. He was standing a short way off; now he hastened up to them. "An acrobat? Did I hear you speaking about an acrobat?"

"Yes," said they, and laughed.

"Is that anything to laugh at?" said he. "I have a cousin who is an acrobat."

The ladies laughed more heartily. Frans was greatly astonished.

"I assure you he is one of the best fellows I know. And marvellously clever. The talent runs in our family. As a boy I was two whole summers in the circus with him."

The others laughed. "What the deuce can you be laughing at? I never had a better time in my life than in the circus."

The two ladies, unable to control their merriment, hurried towards the door. RÖy was obliged to follow, but was offended.

"I have not the faintest idea what is amusing you," he said, when they were all seated in the carriage. Nevertheless he laughed himself.

The little misunderstanding resulted in all three being in the best of humours when they stopped in front of Mary's house. Alice and Frans RÖy drove on without her. Frans turned blissfully to Alice and asked if he had not been a good boy to-day? if he had not kept himself well in hand? if his "affair" were not progressing splendidly? He did not wait for her answer; he laughed and chattered; and he was determined to go in with her. But this Alice had no intention of allowing. Then he demanded, as his reward for not persisting, that she should take them both for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne, in the direction of La Bagatelle. It was to be in the morning, about nine o'clock; then the scent of the trees would be strongest, the song of the birds fullest; and then they would still have the place to themselves. This she promised.

On the following Friday she called for Mary before nine in the morning, and they drove on to pick up Frans RÖy.

From a long way off Alice saw him marching up and down on the pavement. His face and bearing filled her with a presentiment of mischief. Mary could not see him until they stopped. But then a flame rushed into her face, kindled by the fire in his. He boarded the carriage like a captured vessel. Alice hastened to attract his attention in order to avoid an immediate outburst.

"How lovely the morning is," she said; "just because the sun is not shining in its full strength! Nothing can be more beautiful than this subdued tone over a scene as full of colour as that towards which we are driving."

But Frans did not hear; he understood nothing but Mary. The white veil thrown back over her red hair, the fresh, half open mouth, deprived him of his senses. Alice remarked that the woods had become more fragrant since the Japanese trees had grown up. Each time these flung a wanton puff in among the sober European wood scents, it was as if foreign birds with foreign screams were flying among the trees. Frans RÖy at once affirmed that the native birds were thereby inspired with new song. Never had they sung so gloriously as they were singing that morning. Alice's fear of an explosion increased. She tried to avoid it by drawing his attention to the contrasts of colour in wood and meadow and distance. The drive out to La Bagatelle is peculiarly rich in these. But Frans was sitting with his back to the horses; he had to turn away from Mary and Alice every time to see what Alice wanted him to look at. This made him impatient, the more so as Mary and he were each time interrupted in their conversation.

"Shall we not rather get out and walk a little?" said he.

But Alice was more afraid of this than anything. What might he not take into his head next?

"Do look about you!" she exclaimed. "Is it not as if the colours here were singing in chorus?"

"Where?" said Frans crossly.

"Goodness! Don't you see all the varieties of green in the wood itself? Just look! And then the green of the meadow against these?"

"I have no desire to see it! Not an atom!" He turned towards the ladies again and laughed. "Would it not really be better to get down?" he insisted again. "It's ever so much pleasanter to walk in the wood than to look at it. The same with the meadows." "It is forbidden to walk on the grass."

"Confound it! Then let us walk on the road, and look at it all. That is surely better than being cooped up in a carriage."

Mary agreed with him.

"Do you suppose that it was to walk I drove you out here? It was to see that historic house, La Bagatelle, and the wood surrounding it. There is nothing like it anywhere. And then I meant to go as far into the country as possible. We can't do all this if we are to walk."

This appeal kept them quiet for a time. The owner of the carriage must be allowed to decide. But now Mary, too, was in wild spirits. Her eyes, usually thoughtful, shone with happiness. To-day she laughed at all Frans's jokes; she laughed at nothing at all. She was perpetually coveting flowers which she saw; and each time they had to stop, to gather both flowers and leaves. She filled the carriage with them, until Alice at last protested. Then she flung them all out, and insisted on being allowed to get out herself.

They stopped and alighted.

They had long ago passed La Bagatelle. The carriage was ordered to turn and drive slowly back; they followed.

They had not taken many steps before Frans RÖy began to turn cart-wheels, that is to say, to throw himself forward side-ways upon his hands, turn in the air, and fall again upon his feet—then to go off again sideways upon his hands, ever onwards, ever faster. Presently he turned and came back in the same way. "That is one of my circus tricks," he said, beaming. "Here is another!" He jumped up where he stood, turned round in the air, and came down again on his feet on the exact spot from which he had jumped—then did the same thing again. "Look. Exactly where I jumped from!" he exclaimed triumphantly, and did it two, three, four, five times more.

They admired. And it was a sight worthy of admiration; for the ease with which the tall, strong man performed the feat made it beautiful. Inspired by their praise, he began to spin round at such a rate that they could not bear to look. Nor was it beautiful. They turned away and screamed. This delighted him tremendously. Annoyed by the fact, Alice called out:

"You are a perfect boy; any one would take you for seventeen!"

"How old are you?" asked Mary.

"Over thirty."

They shouted with laughter.

This they should not have done. This he must punish. Before Alice divined his intention, he seized her round the waist, turned, and was off with her in the most frantic gallop up the road, raising clouds of dust. Stout Alice struggled with all her might and screamed. But this was of no avail; it only delighted him. Her hat and her shawl fell off. Mary ran and picked them up, helpless with laughter; for these ungainly and perfectly useless attempts at resistance were irresistibly comic. At last Frans turned, and they came back again at the same wild pace and stopped where Mary stood—Alice's face distorted, perspiring, and red. Her breathless rage, incapable of utterance, made Mary explode. Frans sang: Hop sa-sa! hop-sa-sa! in front of the angry lady, until she could speak and abuse him. Then he laughed.

"And you—?" said Mary, now turning to Frans. "Has it not tired you at all?"

"Not much. I'm quite prepared to take the same trip with you."

Mary was horrified. She had just given Alice her hat, and was standing holding the shawl and her own hat, which she had taken off. With a cry she threw both from her and set off in the homeward direction, towards the waiting carriage.

Not for an instant had Frans RÖy thought of doing what he threatened. He had spoken in jest. But when he saw her run, and with a speed for which he would have given neither her nor any other woman credit, his soldier's blood took it as a challenge. Alice saw this and said hurriedly: "Don't do it." The words flung themselves in his way so insistently that he stood doubtful. But Mary yonder on the road in the white dress with the red hair above it, running with a step so swift and light that the very rhythm of it allured him, nay, bereft him of his senses ... he was off before he knew what he was about, just as Alice called for the second time, in an agonised tone: "Don't do it!"

The strip of light above the dust of the road in front of him shone into his eyes and his imagination like the sun. It blinded him. He ran without consciousness of what he was doing. He ran as if: "Catch me! Catch me!" were being shouted in front the whole time. He ran as if the winning of life's highest prize depended on his reaching Mary.

She had a long start of him. Precisely this incited to the uttermost exertion of all his powers. A race for happiness with one who desired to be beaten! Blood at the boiling point surged in his ears; desire burned in it. The longings of all these days and nights were tumultuously urging him on to victory. Speak they would at last. No, speech would be uncalled for; he would have her in his arms.

Now Mary turned her head—saw him, gave a cry, gathered up her dress. She actually owned a still swifter pace, did she! Madness seized Frans. He believed that the cry was a lure. He saw Mary make a forward sign with her hand; he believed that she was showing where she would stop and consider herself safe. He must reach her before she got there. He, too, had a last spurt in reserve; it brought him with a rush close in upon her. He seemed to perceive the fragrance exhaling from her; next moment he must hear her breathing. He was so excited that he did not know he had touched her until she looked round. She let her dress fall at once, and after one or two more swift steps, stood still. His arm went round her waist; he was on fire; he drew her tightly to him—to hear the angriest: "Let me go!" Want of breath gave it its excessive sharpness. Frans was appalled, but felt that he must support her until she recovered breath, and therefore retained his hold. Again came with the same compressed sharpness of breathlessness: "You are no gentleman!" He let go.

The clatter of horses' hoofs was heard; the carriage was approaching rapidly. The servants on the box must have witnessed the whole occurrence; it was to them she had waved. During his wild chase he had seen her alone.

Now she walked towards the carriage. She held her handkerchief to her face; she was crying. The servant jumped down and opened the carriage door.

Frans turned away, desperate, his mind paralysed. Alice came up. She was carrying her own shawl and Mary's hat, and went straight towards the carriage without taking notice of him. When he attempted to join her, she waved him off.

The third day after the occurrence Frans called upon Alice. He was told that she was not at home. The following day he received the same answer. After this he was absent from Paris for some days; but immediately on his return he called again. "She has just gone out," answered the servant. But this time he simply pushed the man aside and went in.

Alice stood eagerly examining a collection of objects of art; table and chairs were covered with them, they stood about everywhere. "Alice—!" said Frans, gently and reproachfully. She started, and at that moment he caught sight of her father behind her. He at once came forward as if he had said nothing.

The art treasures were collected and laid aside, Frans assisting. Mr. Clerc left the room.

"Alice!" now repeated Frans RÖy in the same reproachful tone. "You surely do not mean to close your door to me? And just when I am so unhappy?"

She did not answer.

"We who have always been such good friends and had such good times together?"

Alice looked away from him and gave no answer.

"Even if I have behaved foolishly, we two surely know each other too well for that to separate us?"

"There are limits to everything," he heard her say.

He was silent for a moment. "Limits? limits? Come now, Alice. Between us there is surely no—"

Before he could say more she broke out: "It is inexcusable to behave in such a way before other people!" She was scarlet.

"Yes. You mean?" He did not understand.

She turned away. "To treat me in such a manner before Mary——what must Mary think?"

Never until now had it occurred to him that he had behaved badly to her, to Alice, too; all this time he had thought only of Mary. Now, ashamed of himself, dreadfully ashamed of himself, he came forward.

"Will you pardon me, Alice? I was so happy that I did not think. I didn't understand till this moment. Forgive a poor sinner! Won't you look at me?"

She turned her head towards him; her eyes were unhappy and full of tears; they met his, which were also unhappy, but beseeching. It was not long before his and hers melted into each other. He stretched out his arms, embraced her, tried to kiss her; but this he was not allowed to do.

"Alice, dear, sweet Alice, you will help me again!"

"It is of no use. You spoil everything."

"After this, I will do every single thing you ask me."

"You promised the same before."

"But now I have learned a lesson. Now I shall keep my promise. On my honour!"

"Your promises are not to be relied on. For you do not understand."

"I don't understand?"

"No, you don't understand in the least who she is!"

"I confess that I must have been mistaken, for even now I fail to comprehend what made her so angry."

"That I can quite believe."

"Yes. When she threw everything away and ran, I felt certain that it was to get me to run after her."

"Did you not hear me call twice: 'Don't do it!'?"

"Yes, but I did not understand that either."

Alice sat down with a hopeless feeling. She said no more; she thought it useless to do so. He seated himself opposite to her.

"Explain it to me, Alice! Did you not see how she laughed when I danced off with you?"

"Has it not dawned upon you yet that there is a difference between us and her?"

"Mary Krog is most unassuming; she makes no pretensions whatever."

"Quite so. But now you are misunderstanding me again. Whereas we are ordinary beings, whom other people may touch with impunity, she dwells in a remoteness which no one as yet has diminished by one foot. It is not from pride or vanity that she does so."

"No, no!"

"She is like that. If she were not, she would have been captured and married long ago. You surely don't imagine that proposals have been wanting?"

"Everyone knows they have not."

"Ask Mrs. Dawes! She keeps a diary of them in her thousand letters. She writes about nothing else now."

"But what, then, is the explanation of it, dear Alice?"

"It is quite simple. She is gentle, sweet-tempered, obliging—all this and more. But she dwells in an enchanted land, into which none may intrude. She preserves it inviolate with extraordinary vigilance and tact."

"To touch her is forbidden, you mean?"

"Absolutely! Fancy your not understanding that yet!"

"I did understand; but I forgot."

Frans RÖy sat silent as if he were listening to something far away. Again he heard the sharp cries of fear which thrilled through the air as he drew near, saw the terrified sign to the carriage, felt Mary's trembling body, heard the ejaculation uttered with all her remaining strength, saw her walk on, weeping. All at once he understood! What a stupid, coarse criminal he was!

He sat there dumb, miserable. But it was not in his nature to give up. His face soon brightened.

"After all, dear Alice, it was only a game."

"To her it was more. You are surely not still in doubt as to that?"

"She has been pursued before, you mean?"

"In many different ways."

"Consequently she imagined——?"

"Of course. You saw that she did."

He did not reply.

"But now tell me, my dear Frans—was it not more than a game to you, too? Was it not all-decisive?"

He bowed his head, ashamed. Then he walked across the room and came back.

"She is a queen. She will not be captured. I should have stopped——?"

"You should never have gone after her. And she would have been yours now."

Frans seated himself again as if a heavy weight were pressing on his shoulders.

"Did she say anything?" asked Alice with a searching look.

He would have preferred not to tell, but the question was repeated.

"She said that I was no gentleman."

Alice declared this to be too bad. Frans then asked if Mary had said anything to her in the carriage.

"Not a word. But I spoke. I abused you—well."

"She has not referred to the matter since?"

Alice shook her head. "Your name is erased from her dictionary, my friend."

Some days after this Frans received by tube-post a hurried note which informed him that at eleven that morning the two ladies would again be at the exhibition in the Champs ElysÉes. It was eleven when the note came.

Mary had called to ask Alice to go with her to look at a Dutch coast landscape which her father wished to buy. They considered the price rather high; possibly Alice would be able to make better terms. Mary's carriage was waiting at the door. Alice left her, wrote hastily to Frans RÖy, and then went to dress, which to-day, contrary to custom, took her a long time. They drove to the exhibition, found the picture, and went to the office, where they had to wait. After making their offer and giving the address, they returned to the ground-floor of the exhibition in search of the acrobat. He stood there now in all his manly strength. Alice reached him first, and exclaimed "Why! it is——," then stopped short and walked away from Mary. She examined the statue from every side, over and over again, without saying a word. Precisely that which distinguished Frans RÖy—that his strength did not announce itself in distended muscle, but in the elasticity of a beautifully formed, lithe body—was to be observed here. Frans RÖy's toss of the head, his broad forehead aslant in the air, his hand, his short, strong foot—everything was here! The statue affected the beholder like a war-song. For the first time Alice found the word for the effect which Frans produced. She was carried away by the statue as by the rhythm of a march. Exactly what she had often felt when she saw Frans walk! Was this likeness a curious accident, or had he really ... she turned quite hot and had to walk away from the statue and look at something else.

Mary had all the time kept behind Alice, who had quite forgotten her. The question now involuntarily occurred to Alice: Does Mary understand what she sees?

She waited a little before she began to observe. Mary, who was now standing in front of the statue, with her back towards Alice, remained so long motionless that the latter's curiosity increased. She went round and stationed herself among the statues opposite, put on her eye-glass, and looked across. Mary's eyes were half closed; her bosom was heaving. She walked slowly round the statue, then retired to a distance, came back, and stood still again midway between front and side.

Then she looked round for Alice and caught sight of the eye-glasses turned in her direction; Alice was actually holding them on, to see clearer. There could be no mistake—her face was one mischievous smile.

There are things which one woman objects to another understanding. Mary's blood surged; angry and hurt, she took Alice's look as an insult. She turned her back quickly on the acrobat and walked towards the door. But she stopped once or twice, pretending to look at other pieces of sculpture, really to obtain mastery over the uproar in her breast. At last she reached the door. She did not look round to see if Alice were following; she passed through the entrance hall and left the building.

But just as she did so, Frans RÖy hurried up—as quickly as if he had been sent for and were arriving too late. He tore off his hat without getting even a nod in answer. He saw nothing but a pair of vacant eyes. "Oh, please don't be angry any longer!" he said with his broadest east-country accent, good-humouredly and boyishly. Mary's face cleared; she could not help herself; she smiled, and was actually going to take his outstretched hand—when she saw his eyes travel with the speed of lightning to a point behind her and come back with the least little particle of triumph in them. She turned her head and met Alice's eyes. In them there was any amount both of mischief and rejoicing. There had been a plot then! Mary was transformed. As if from the highest church steeple she looked down upon them both—and left them. Her carriage was waiting a short way off; she motioned, and it came in a wide sweep to where she stood. There was no footman; she opened the door before Frans RÖy could come to her assistance, and got in as if no one were there. When seated she looked—past Frans—to see if Alice were coming. Fat Alice was waddling slowly along. It was plain, even from a distance, that a wild struggle with suppressed laughter was going on within her. And when she arrived and saw Mary sitting in state looking to the one side, and Frans RÖy, the giant, standing on the other like a frightened recruit, she could resist no longer; she gave way to a fit of laughter which shook her heavy body from head to foot. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, laughed so that it was with difficulty and not without assistance she found the carriage-step and hauled herself up. She sank on the seat beside Mary, convulsed with laughter; the carriage shook, as she sat with her handkerchief to her face, suppressing screams. She caught a glimpse of Mary's scarlet anger and Frans RÖy's pale dismay—and laughed the louder. The very coachman was obliged to laugh too, though what the devil it was about he did not know. And thus they drove off.

Another unsuccessful expedition, another defeat of the highest hopes! It was a long time before Alice could say anything. Then she began by pitying Frans RÖy.

"You are too severe with him, Mary. Goodness! how miserable he looked!" And the laughter began again.

But Mary, who had been sitting waiting for an opportunity, now broke out:

"What have I to do with your protÉgÉ?"

And as if this were not enough, she bent forward to face Alice's laughing eyes:

"You are confusing me with yourself. It is you who are in love with him. Do you imagine that I have not seen that for ever so long? You know best yourselves in what relation you stand to each other. That is no affair of mine. But the 'De'[B] which you both keep up—is it for the purpose of concealment?"

[B] You as distinguished from the familiar thou.