In the Quarter

But she went on.

``I was only seventeen – I am nineteen now. He was an officer at – at Chartres, where we lived. He took me to Paris.''

``And left you.''

``He died of the fever in Tonquin.''

``When?''

``Three weeks ago.''

``And you heard?''

``Tonight.''

``Then he did leave you.''

``Don't, Rex – he never loved me, and I – I never really loved him. I found that out.''

``When did you find it out?''

``One day – you know when – in a – a cab.''

``Dear Yvonne,'' he whispered, ``can't you go back to – to your family?''

``No, Rex.''

``Never?''

``I don't wish to, now. No, don't ask me why! I can't tell you. I am like all the rest – all the rest. The Paris fever is only cured by death. Don't ask me, Rex; I am content – indeed I am.''

Suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused Gethryn to spring hurriedly to his feet.

``Rex!''

It was Braith's voice.

``What!'' cried Gethryn, hoarsely.

There was a pause.

``Aren't you going to let me in?''

``I can't, old man; I – I'm not just up for company tonight,'' stammered Gethryn.

``Company be damned – are you ill?''

``No.''

There was a silence.

``I'm sorry,'' began Gethryn, but was cut short by a gruff:

``All right; good night!'' and Braith went away.

Yvonne looked inquiringly at him.

``It was nothing,'' he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at her feet, crying, ``Oh, Yvonne – Yvonne!''

Outside the storm raged furiously.

Presently she whispered, ``Rex, shall I light the candle? It is midnight.''

``Yes,'' he said.

She slipped away, and after searching for some time, cried, ``the matches are all gone, but here is a piece of paper – a letter; do you want it? I can light it over the lamp.''

She held up an envelope to him.

``I can light it over the lamp,'' she repeated.

``What is the address?''

``It is very long; I can't read it all, only `Florence, Italy.'''

``Burn it,'' he said, in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him.

Presently she came over and knelt down by his side. Neither spoke or moved.

``The candle is lighted,'' she whispered, at last.

``And the lamp?''

``Is out.''

Nine

Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him in a ``petit diner a la stag,'' as he expressed it.

Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now wore only a mustache. For another, he had learned to like and respect a fair portion of the French students, and in consequence was respected and liked in return.

He had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the glory of the British Empire and prize ring.

He was a better sparrer than Clifford and was his equal in the use of the foils. Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone of contention that ever fell between the two.

Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played ``The Widow Nolan's Goat'' upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos of Rowden.

Clifford drank numerous bottles of double X with Rowden, and Rowden consumed uncounted egg-flips with Clifford. They were inseparable; in fact, the triumvirate, Clifford, Elliott and Rowden, even went so far as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but one common style in painting. But they did not make the remark to any of the triumvirate. They were very fond of each other, these precious triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain from familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived.