even such a hope was fruitless. 

 His colonel had told him only the day before that Miss Redmond was one of the richest American heiresses, and there was a question of a duke or a prince and heaven only knew what in the way of titles. As the marquise moved away her progress was something like the rolling of an elegant velvet chair, and while his feelings were still disturbed Miss Redmond crossed the room to him. Before Sabron quite knew how they had been able to escape the others or leave the room, he was standing with her in the winter garden where the sunlight came in through trellises and the perfume of the warmed plants was heavy and sweet. Below them flowed the Rhone, golden in the winter's light. The blue river swept its waves around old Tarascon and the battlements of King René's towers. 

 "You are going to Algiers to-morrow, Monsieur de Sabron?"  Miss Redmond smiled, and how was Sabron to realize that she could not very well have wept there and then, had she wished to do so? 

 "Yes," he said.  "I adore my regiment. I love my work. I have always wanted to see colonial service." 

 "Have you? It is delightful to find one's ambitions and desires satisfied," said Miss Redmond.  "I have always longed to see the desert. It must be beautiful. Of course you are going to take Pitchouné?" 

 "Ah!" exclaimed Sabron, "that is just what I am not going to do." 

 "What!" she cried.  "You are never going to leave that darling dog behind you?" 

 "I must, unfortunately. My superior officers do not allow me to take horses or dogs, or even my servant." 

 "Heavens!" she exclaimed.  "What brutes they are! Why, Pitchouné will die of a broken heart."  Then she said: "You are leaving him with your man servant?" 

 Sabron shook his head. 

 "Brunet would not be able to keep him." 

 "Ah!" she breathed.  "He is looking for a home? Is he? If so, would you ... might I take care of Pitchouné?" 

 The Frenchman impulsively put out his hand, and she laid her own in it. 

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