he had seen at once with such keen, sure eyes one of the things which were amiss with her. Paul ordered some chicken and a salad.

“But the waiter will be quick, won’t he?” she urged. “Madame is not very content if we are idle.”

Paul laughed.

“I’ll speak to her,” he said lightly. “I’ll tell her that she is not to worry you to-night.”

He rose half out of his chair, meaning to buy an evening of rest for Marguerite Lambert from the old harridan behind the Bar. A bottle of champagne would no doubt be the price and there was no compulsion upon them to drink it. But he was not yet upon his feet when the girl reached out her hand and caught his sleeve.

“No! Please!” she cried with a vehemence which quite startled him. “If she sends for me, I have got to go and you mustn’t say a word! Promise me!”

She was in terror. Even now her eyes glanced affrightedly towards the open doorway, already expecting the appearance of her mistress. To the enigma which the girl’s presence at all in the Villa Iris proposed to Paul Ravenel, here was another added. Why should she be so terrified of that red-faced, bustling woman behind the Bar? After all, Marguerite Lambert—the only delicate and fresh and young girl who had danced there for a living—must mean custom to Madame Delagrange; must be therefore a personage to be considered, not a mere slave to be terrified and driven! Why, then—? How, then—? And his blood was hot at the mere thought of Marguerite’s terror and subjection.

But he showed nothing of his anger, nothing of his perplexity in his face. He was at pains to reassure her. Let him not add to her fears and troubles.

“I promise, Marguerite,” he said. “But let’s hope she doesn’t notice your absence.”

Once more she smiled, her face a flame of tenderness.

“You called me by my name.”

He repeated it, dwelling upon its syllables.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he said.

“Perhaps, as you speak it,” she answered with a laugh. “But wait till you hear how harsh a word Madame can make of it.”

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