In the Quarter

``My love! No!'' A new respect mingled with his passion. Yes, she was faithful!

``And now I will go in! Rex, Rex, you are quite as bad as ever! Look at my hair!'' She leaned lightly on his shoulder, her old laughing self.

He smiled back sadly.

``Again! After all! You silly, silly boy! And it is such a little while to wait!''

``Belle Hélène is very popular in Paris. The piece may run a long time.''

``Rex, I must. Don't make it so hard for me!'' Tears filled her eyes.

He kissed her for answer, without speaking.

``Think! think of all she did for me; saved me; fed me, clothed me, taught me when she believed I had only voice and talent enough to support myself by teaching. It was half a year before she and Monsieur began to think I could ever make them any return for their care of me. And all that time she was like a mother to me. And now she has told everyone her hopes of me. If I fail she will be ridiculed. You know Paris. She and Monsieur have enemies who will say there never was any pupil, nor any debut expected. Perhaps she will lose her prestige. The fashion may turn to some other teacher. You know what malice can do with ridicule in Paris. Let me sing for her this once, make her one great success, win her one triumph, and then never, never sing again for any soul but you – my husband!''

Her voice sank at the last words, from its eager pleading, to an exquisite modest sweetness.

``But – if you fail?''

``I shall not fail. I have never doubted that I should have a success. Perhaps it is because for myself I do not care, that I have no fear. When I had lost you – I only thought of that. And now that I have found you again – !''

She clung to him in passionate silence.

``And I may not see your debut?''

``If you come I shall surely fail! I must forget you. I must think only of my part. What do I care for the house full of strange faces? I will make them all rise up and shout my name. But if you were there – Ah! I should have no longer any courage! Promise me to come only on the second night.''

``But if you do fail, I may come and take you immediately before Monsieur the Maire?''

``If you please!'' she whispered demurely.

And they both laughed, the old happy-children laugh of the Atelier.

``I suppose you are bad enough to hope that I will fail,'' added she presently, with a little moue.

``Yvonne,'' said Rex earnestly, ``I hope that you will succeed. I know you will, and I can wait for you a few weeks more.''

``We have waited for our happiness two years. We will make the happiness of others now first, n'est ce pas?'' she whispered.

The sky began to glow and the house was astir. Rex knew how it would soon be talking, but he cared for nothing that the world could do or say.

``Ah! we will be happy! Think of it! A little house near the Parc Monceau, my studio there, Clifford, Elliott, Rowden – Bra– all of them coming again! And it will be my wife who will receive them!''

She placed a little soft palm across his lips.

``Taisez-vous, mon ami! It is too soon! See the morning! I must go. There! yes – one more! – my love, Adieu!''

Sixteen

Fewer tourists and more hunters had been coming to the Lodge of late; the crack of the rifle sounded all day. There was great talk of a hunt which the duke would hold in September, and the colonel and Rex were invited. But though September was now only a few days off, the colonel was growing too restless to wait.

After Yvonne's visit, he and Ruth were much together. It seemed to happen so. They took long walks into the woods, but Ruth seemed to share now her father's aversion to climbing, and Gethryn stalked the deer with only the Jaegers for company.

Ruth and her father used to come home with their arms full of wild flowers – the fair, lovely wild blossoms of Bavaria which sprang up everywhere in their path. The colonel was great company on these expeditions, singing airs from obsolete operas of his youth, and telling stories of La Grange, Brignoli and Amodio, of the Strakosches and Maretzeks, with much liveliness. Sometimes there would be a silence, however, and then if Ruth looked up she often met his eyes. Then he would smile and say:

``Well, Daisy!'' and she would smile and say:

``Well, dear!''

But this could not last. About a week after Yvonne's visit, the colonel, after one of these walks, instead of joining Rex for a smoke, left him sitting with Ruth under the beech tree and mounted the stairs to Mrs Dene's room.

It was an hour later when he rose and kissed his wife, who had been sitting at her window all the time of their quiet talk, with eyes fixed on the young people below.

``I never dreamed of it!'' said he.

``I did, I wished it,'' was her answer. ``I thought he was – but they are all alike!'' she ended sadly and bitterly. ``To think of a boy as wellborn as Rex – '' But the colonel, who possibly knew more about wellborn boys than his wife did, interrupted her:

``Hang the boys! It's Ruth I'm grieved for!''

``My daughter needs no one's solicitude, not even ours!'' said the old lady haughtily.

``Right! Thank God!'' said the veteran, in a tone of relief. ``Good night, my dear!''

Two days later they left for Paris.

Rex accompanied them as far as Schicksalsee, promising to follow them in a few days.

The handsome, soldierly-looking Herr Förster stood by their carriage and gave them a ``Glück-liche Reise!'' and a warm ``Auf Wiedersehen!'' as they drove away. Returning up the steps slowly and seriously, he caught the eye of Sepp and Federl, who had been looking after the carriage as it turned out of sight beyond the bridge:

``Schade!'' said the Herr Förster, and went into the house.

``Schade!'' said Federl.

``Jammer-schade!'' growled Sepp.

On the platform at Schicksalsee, Rex and Ruth were walking while they waited for the train. ``Ruth,'' said Rex, ``I hope you never will need a friend's life to save yours from harm; but if you do, take mine.''

``Yes, Rex.'' She raised her eyes and looked into the distance. Far on the horizon loomed the Red Peak.

The clumsy mail drew up beside the platform. It was the year when all the world was running after a very commonplace Operetta with one lovely stolen song: a Volks-song. One heard it everywhere, on both continents; and now as the postillion, in his shiny hat with the cockade, his light blue jacket and white small clothes, and his curly brass horn, came rattling down the street, he was playing the same melody:

Es ist im Leben häßlich eingerichtet –

The train drew into the station. When it panted forth again, Gethryn stood waving his hand, and watched it out of sight.

Turning at last to leave the platform, he found that the crowd had melted away; only a residue of crimson-capped officials remained. He inquired of one where he could find an expressman and was referred to a mild man absorbing a bad cigar. With him Gethryn arranged for having his traps brought from Trauerbach and consigned to the brothers Schnurr at the ``Gasthof zur Post,'' Schicksalsee, that inn being close to the station.

This settled, he lighted a cigarette and strolled across to his hotel, sitting down on a stone bench before the door, and looking off at the lake.