as the girl could recall having encountered on the hither side of the motion picture screen. Two women tittered as Nick entered; then with one accord, the eyes of the entire group fixed on Pat, where she stood drawing her wrap more closely about her, standing uncomfortably behind her escort. And the piano tinkled its discords in the far corner. 

"Same place," said Nick shortly to the bartender, ignoring the glances of the others. Pat followed him across the room to a door, into a hall, thence into a smaller room furnished merely with a table and four chairs. The nondescript man stood waiting in the doorway as Nick took her wrap and seated her in one of the chairs. 

"Quart," he said laconically, and the bartender disappeared. 

Pat stared intently, studiously, into the face of her companion. Nick's face, certainly; here in full light there was no trace of the red-eyed horror she had fancied out there in the semi-darkness of the street. Or was there? Now--when he turned, when the light struck his eyes at an angle, was that a glint of crimson? Still, the features were Nick's, only a certain grim intensity foreign to him lurked about the set of his mouth, the narrowed eye-lids. 

"Well!" she said. "So this is Paris! What are you trying to do--teach me capital L--life? And where do we dance?" 

"In here." 

"And what kind of quart was that you ordered? You know how little I drink, and I'm darned particular about even that little." 

"You'll like this." 

"I doubt it." 

"I said you'll like it," he reiterated in flat tones. 

"I heard you say it." She regarded him with a puzzled frown. "Nick," she said suddenly, "I've decided I like you better in your gentle pose; this masterful attitude isn't becoming, and you can forget what I said about wishing you'd display it oftener." 

"You'll like that, too." 

"Again I doubt it. Nick, dear, don't spoil another evening like that last one!" 

"This one won't be like the last one!" 

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