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                        A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL

                               _A Novel_

                           By C. RANGER GULL

                _Author of "A Woman in the Case," etc._

    Founded on the successful play by E. G. Hemmerde, K. C.,
    M. P., and Francis Neilson, M. P.

    _WITH PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE PLAY_

    NEW YORK

    WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY

    1912

    Copyrighted 1912, by
    WILLIAM RICKEY & COMPANY

    PRESS OF WILLIAM G. HEWITT, 61-67 NAVY ST., BROOKLYN, N. Y.




[Illustration: "Forgive me, George," she sobbed, "forgive me."]




ORIGINAL PROGRAM OF A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL

Produced at the 39th Street Theatre, beginning Tuesday Evening, January
9th, 1912

                         MR. LEWIS WALLER
                      Has the Honor to Submit
                      A Butterfly on the Wheel
    By Edward G. Hemmerde, K. C., and Francis Neilson, M. P.
    Produced under the personal supervision of Lewis Waller

    The Rt. Hon. George Admaston, M. P.              Eille Norwood
    Roderick Collingwood                             Charles Quartermaine
    Lord Ellerdine                                   Evelyn Beerbohm
    Sir John Burroughes, President of the
      Divorce Court,                                 Herbert Budd
    Sir Robert Fyffe, K. C., M. P., Admaston's
      leading counsel,                               Sidney Valentine
    Gervaise McArthur, K. C., Collingwood's
      leading counsel,                               Lewis Broughton
    Stuart Menzies, K. C., Collingwood's
      leading counsel,                               Denis Cleugh
    Jacques, waiter at the Hotel des Tuileries       Walter Cluxton
    Jean DuBois, detective                           John Wilmer
    Foreman of the jury                              James Stuart
    Footman                                          Frank Dossert
    Lady Attwill                                     Olive Temple
    Pauline, Miss Admaston's maid                    Loretta Wells
    Peggy, George Admaston's wife                    Madge Titheradge

    General Manager                                  Victor Lewis
    Business Manager                                 John Wilmer
    Stage Manager                                    Lewis Broughton




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"Forgive me, George," she sobbed, "forgive me"

"We all got on the wrong train and we all stayed the night at this
hotel"

"Don't you see, man, if you call in the court to break her wings, you'll
only drive her to me!"

"He caught her in his arms--in his strong arms"




PREFACE


Of all the English plays that have come to this country none has created
more of a sensation than "A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL," and without
question will be received the same by the public over the entire country
as it has been received in New York. The play opened at the Thirty-ninth
Street Theatre on Tuesday evening, January 9th, and has played to
"standing room only" at every performance since.

The story in book form has been done by C. Ranger Gull (pen name), a
writer who has already gained a big reputation as an author both in
America and England, and the success of "A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL" goes
without saying.

THE PUBLISHER.




A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL




CHAPTER I


It was shortly after midnight in the great Hotel des Tuileries at Paris.

Beyond the facade of the hotel the gardens of the Tuileries were
sleeping in the warm night. To the left the Louvre etched itself in
solid black against the sky, and all up and down the Rue de Rivoli
carriages and automobiles were still moving.

But in the great thoroughfare the tide of vehicles and foot passengers
was perceptibly thinning. Paris is a midnight city, it is true, and at
this hour the heights of Montmartre were thronged with pleasure-seekers,
dancing and supping till the pale dawn should come with its message of
purity and reproach.

But down in the Rue de Rivoli even the great hotels were beginning to
prepare for sleep.

One enters the Hotel des Tuileries, as every one knows, through the
revolving doors, passes into the entresol, and then into the huge
glass-domed lounge with its comfortable fauteuils, its big settee, its
little tables covered with beaten copper, and its great palms, which
seem as if they had been cunningly enamelled jade-green by some
jeweller.

The lounge was now almost empty of people, though the shaded electric
light threw a topaz-coloured radiance over everything.

In one corner--just where the big marble stair-case springs upwards to
the gilded gallery--two men in evening dress were sitting together.

They were obviously English, tall, thin, bronzed men, as obviously in
the service. As a matter of fact, one was Colonel Adams, attached to the
Viceroy's staff in India, the other a civilian's secretary--Henry
Passhe.

They were both smoking briar pipes--delighted that the lateness of the
hour allowed them to do so in the lounge; and before each man was a long
glass full of crushed ice and some effervescing water innocent of
whisky.

A man in black clothes, obviously a valet, came up to Colonel Adams.

"I've put everything ready in your room, sir," he said. "Is there
anything else?"

"No, there is nothing else, Snell," the soldier answered. "You can go to
bed now."

The man was moving away when Adams called him back.

"Oh, by the way, Snell, did you find out what I asked you? It is Mrs.
Admaston who is staying here, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, she is here with her maid, and----"

"Well?"

The man seemed to hesitate slightly, but at length he spoke: "Mr.
Roderick Collingwood is here too, sir."

"Is he, by Jove!" Adams said, more to his friend than to his servant.
"Very well, Snell. Good night."

The valet withdrew, and Colonel Adams puffed vigorously at his pipe for
a minute or two.

"_The_--the Mrs. Admaston?" the civilian asked.

Colonel Adams nodded. "The great, little Peggy herself," he said; "none
other. Surely you've met her, Passhe?"

"I was introduced to her some months ago at a Foreign Office reception,"
the younger man answered; "but I really can't say that I know her. I've
never been to any of the Admastons' parties. In fact, my dear Adams, I
am a little bit out of things in town now. Ask me anything about any of
the Indian set and I can tell you, but as far as society goes in London
I am a back number. I won't say, though, that I haven't heard this and
that about the Admastons. One can't go anywhere without hearing their
names. However, I know nothing of the rights or wrongs of the story--if
story there is at all. But certainly every one has heard this man
Collingwood's name mentioned in connection with that of Mrs. Admaston.
Who was she, any way? You know everything about everybody. Tell me all
about them."

Colonel Adams sipped his Perrier quietly, and his brown, lean face
became unusually meditative.

"Aren't you sleepy?" he said.

"Can't sleep, confound it!" Passhe replied. "Liver. Have lunch, take an
afternoon nap, and then can't get to sleep at night for the Lord knows
how long."

"I know," Adams said sympathetically. "Liver is the very devil. That's
the worst of India. Now, there is nothing, my dear chap, that I should
enjoy more at this moment than a two-finger peg of whisky. Can I take
it? Damn it, no! I should have heartburn for hours--that's India! But
since you are not sleepy, and I am sure I'm not, I will tell you about
the Admastons."

The colonel's pipe had gone out. He relit it, pressed down the ashes
with the head of a little silver pencil-case which he took from his
waistcoat pocket, sent out a cloud of fragrant blue-grey smoke, leant
back in his arm-chair, and began.

"Admaston," Colonel Adams began, "is one of the most hard-working
Johnnies of the day. He's as rich as what-d'you-call-him, of course, but
he hasn't used his wealth to make his position in Parliament or to get
him his place in the Cabinet. He's done it by sheer ability, by Jove!
He's of an old family, but there haven't been any members of it in big
political positions to help him over the heads of those who have to
shift for themselves.

"He was at Harrow with me, though considerably my junior, and I remember
he played cricket with an energy that deserved a much higher batting
average than he got. He wasn't a studious youth by any means, though he
learnt enough to know his way about. He was still at school and I had
just passed into Sandhurst when his father died and left him a huge
fortune. Then he went to Oxford--New College it may have been, or
possibly the House. I don't think he did anything much at Oxford. I'm
told by men who were up with him that the sense of the enormous
responsibility which fell on him after his father's death, and the
anxieties of having to manage a great estate and a huge business, spoilt
him for the schools and rather put him off cricket. He might have got
into the Eleven, but he didn't care enough about it to try hard."

"A bit phlegmatic in temperament?" Passhe asked.

"That's it," replied Colonel Adams. "Nothing seemed to move him much. If
ever a man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, George Admaston
was the chap. But I don't believe he cared particularly whether his
spoon was silver or pewter, by Jove! Just a plain fellow of frugal
habits. I am told that when he met the deputation from the Northern
Division of Lancashire, which went up to town to ask him to contest that
constituency, after the interview one of the local Johnnies said, 'Mr.
Admaston was so nice that he might be nobody.' At anyrate, George has
found his _metier_ in politics. Three years in opposition gave him a
great reputation as a quick and ready debater. He is a great asset to
his party now, and at by-elections he's the night-before-the-poll man."

"But what about his wife?" said the civilian.

"I'm coming to that, Henry," Adams answered. "And if I am a bit
long-winded you've jolly well brought it on yourself. It's like this.
George's father was the head of Admaston, Grainger & Co., the big City
financiers. Old Grainger had a daughter, much younger than George
Admaston. Peggy Grainger was only a tiny little girl when Admaston's
father died. I'm told that the old men when they were together would
chaff each other about their children. Old Grainger used to say that
they must certainly marry--keep the firm together, and so on, don't you
know. In fact, the last letter that George ever got from his father
referred to old Grainger's notion that George should marry Peggy. Now,
Peggy's mother was a Frenchwoman, a Mlle. Guillou, and the girl was
educated in France. George hadn't been long in the Cabinet when old
Grainger brought Peggy to London. She was about nineteen then, and the
prettiest, most flirtatious, whimsical little butterfly of a thing that
you could possibly imagine. Well, her father established Peggy in a big
house in St. James's--huge retinue of servants and so forth. All London
began to talk about the rich Miss Grainger. The girl spent just what she
liked--her father encouraged her to do it; there was really nothing else
to be done with the money. But whenever George came to the house--and he
saw a lot of the Graingers the first year when Peggy came to London--the
old boy was always hinting to him that he ought to marry Peggy.

"One evening Admaston was called off the Treasury Bench in the House to
speak at the telephone. He thought it was Peggy, but it wasn't. It was
her old maid, Pauline, who is here with her in this hotel to-night, and
who has looked after her all her life nearly. Pauline said that old
Grainger had just passed in his cheques, by Jove! He was a big fleshy
fellow--always did himself top hole. He'd made a big dinner, laughed at
a joke like anything with his daughter, had a stroke, and was cooling
by ten o'clock."

"And then?" Henry Passhe asked.

"Well, of course, Peggy was left quite alone. There were no relatives.
In fact, there was nobody except this old nurse, Pauline, a woman of
about forty. Mrs. Grainger had been a chronic invalid, and she had left
the girl in charge of the 'bonne.' Old Grainger often used to say that
Pauline was more of a mother to Peggy than even his wife had been, and
after his death Peggy relied upon the woman for almost everything. She's
been with her ever since, and is more like a mother to her still than a
servant. Pauline, in fact, took charge of the household, looked after
the servants in every way, and controlled everything. It was a curious
_menage_.

"One day Peggy and Admaston met at a country house for a week-end party.
Nobody knows exactly how it happened, but at anyrate George proposed and
Peggy accepted him. I remember the fuss they made about it in the
society papers--fulsome, sickenin' sort of hog-wash they wrote. 'Love at
first sight,' and all that sort of thing. 'Little Peggy was to be the
wife of a Prime Minister'--'they adored each other,' etc. But I'll eat
my hand if they did anything of the kind. They simply remembered the
wishes of their fathers and saw it was best to consolidate their huge
commercial interests. I daresay Peggy felt very lonely and George felt
very sorry for her. At anyrate, the engagement was announced.

"George had an aunt--has her still, I suppose--the rich Miss Admaston, a
damned old cat who gives thousands to foreign missions. I've met some of
the missionaries of her particular gospel-shop in India, and a nice lot
of touts they are too. Well, the old cat was fearfully cut up by the
news of the engagement. She thought Peggy was far too French and
frivolous for George, and, of course, Peggy has always been rather
go-ahead. For my part, I don't care what they are saying now, I don't
think there is an ounce of vice in the girl.

"It's gettin' rather late, Henry, and I'm afraid I'm boring you?"

"Not a bit; go on, do," the secretary answered.

"Very well. George's engagement to Peggy seriously affected the lives of
two people who are deucedly well known in society. One of them was Lady
Attwill, widow of 'Clipper' Attwill, who scuppered his yacht and himself
too somewhere in the Mediterranean--a thorough bad hat, Clipper was.
Lady Attwill had been setting her cap at George for a long time. Every
one knew it but George. It was a regular joke of one season. She
couldn't get hold of him, though, despite everything she could do.
George hadn't an idea of what the woman wanted. He was really fond of
her. He looked on her as a very dear friend, and he took all her
kindnesses and so forth just in that light, with a calm complacency that
must have sent her raving at times. Of course, all Lady Attwill's
friends did their very best to bring the two together upon every
possible occasion; and when George steered clear and proposed to Peggy,
every one said the poor, dear chap was one of the craftiest politicians
on the Front Bench. And all the time, Henry, I'll lay you what you like
that Admaston was as innocent as a canary.

"There were two people, I said, who were seriously affected by George's
engagement. Well, the other was Roderick Collingwood, who's staying in
the hotel now, as Snell has just told us.

"Colling--everybody calls him Colling--knew Peggy's governor. He's a
bally millionaire also, and he used to have a good many dealings with
the firm. Collingwood travels about a great deal--always has done,--and
he first met Peggy when she was a flapper of fifteen at old Grainger's
place near Chantilly--old Grainger used to run horses a lot in France.

"Collingwood has always been an extraordinary sort of chap; he was then,
it appears. Like any other young man of great wealth, he found
everything done for him, anything he liked ready to his hand, and
simply let himself go. When Peggy's father died, Colling was going it
hell-for-leather--just about as fast as they're made. Of course, Peggy
knew nothing of the real facts. But she heard gossip and hints, and one
night she taxed him with the way he was living, referring specially to
one or two of his more recent escapades. He admitted there was some
truth in what she said, and, if what they say is true, made her some
sort of a promise of reformation. At anyrate, he pulled up; there's no
doubt of that.

"Afterwards the two met fairly regularly, and I was staying at Lord
Ellerdine's place in Yorkshire when I believe Collingwood told Peggy of
the good influence she had been, and showed himself as a reformed rake,
by Jove! I think there's no doubt at all that he would have proposed to
the girl if George Admaston had not forestalled him. They say
Collingwood was frightfully cut up. At anyrate, he wasn't in England
when the marriage took place.

"It was a great wedding. Everybody who was anybody was there, only
excepting Collingwood and Lady Attwill. In their case, I remember that
people said they were falling back on their own reserves; but that was
pure scandal, of course. When Collingwood was in Spain, Lady Attwill
was in Switzerland. As a matter of fact, they were both great friends;
and no doubt when Clipper went down in his yacht and left Lady Attwill
very badly off, Collingwood was quite generous to her.

"Well, to cut a long story short--I see it's nearly one
o'clock,--Admaston and his wife spent their honeymoon in Italy--Rome, I
think it was, or Florence. Shortly after their return George introduced
his long and complicated bill on National Roads. It had over a hundred
clauses. Ill-natured people said that he married in order to have an
excuse to get a holiday in which to draft his measure. At anyrate, after
the introduction of the bill George became the absolute centre of the
political strife of the day. He worked harder than ever. His party had
been in office for three years, and their declining favour urged him on
to rouse his followers in the House and in the country to tackle some
necessary reforms before the ensuing General Election. In fact, for
months after his marriage Admaston seemed to live for his Department and
the Front Bench. He was hardly ever seen with Peggy.

"On her part, Peggy went everywhere, and soon the gossips had it that
Admaston was disappointed, while his wife lived a really butterfly life.

"Mrs. Admaston's conduct certainly puzzled the gossips. No one could say
with any sort of certainty that she did anything wrong. Even her best
friends--generally the first persons to give one away--only laughed when
they were questioned, and said, 'It's only Peggy.' She and Roderick
Collingwood met again and again, renewing their old friendship. After
the marriage it was said that Collingwood had a very bad time. There was
a broad wicked streak in him, and everybody assumed that he had gone
back to his old fast living. Well, at anyrate, Peggy took him up again.
She was the kind that either had to be mothered or have someone she
could mother herself. George, apparently, wasn't very much about, and so
she started once more in the effort to exert a benign influence over an
erratic chap like Collingwood. Of course, people said on all sides that
it was a very dangerous game to play.

"Old-fashioned people shook their heads and fore-told all sorts of
trouble for the little butterfly that fluttered so near to the flame
which every one supposed was burning perpetually in Collingwood's heart.

"About this time Lady Attwill returned to England and sought out George
Admaston. What she did quite upset the calculations of the people who
talk. She became very attentive to George, and yet, at the same time,
managed to get about a good bit with Peggy. In fact, she seemed in a
sort of way to console Admaston and to be encouraging his wife. Society
has been perplexed by the whole business for a considerable time. No one
knows what to make of the position. They all met, for instance, at
Ellerdine's for the shooting. Admaston ran down for a week-end only.
Then during the late winter, after a long autumn session, rumours flew
thick and fast, and everybody seemed to be waiting for the storm to
break. Why there should be a storm nobody really seemed to know.
Collingwood and Peggy have been talked about to the exclusion of almost
every other subject. They're talked about now. London and the Faubourg
Saint Honore is buzzing with them. And here, my dear Passhe, you and I
away up at the Tuileries for a merry week of theatres in Paris, and we
find Peggy staying here and Collingwood, too, by Jove!--what! what! Damn
it, Passhe, you're asleep!"

A long-drawn and not entirely unmelodious snore proclaimed that Colonel
Adams's long recital had somewhat wearied the civilian, who was not "in
society."




CHAPTER II


Mrs. Admaston's sitting-room at the Hotel des Tuileries was a large and
beautiful apartment, one of the best in the hotel. Save for the long
French windows, which were now, at midnight, covered with curtains of
green tussore silk, there was nothing distinctively foreign about the
room. The best French hotels nowadays have all adopted English and
American standards of comfort. The stove, the uncarpeted and slippery
parquet floor, the impossible chairs, and a ceiling painted to resemble
a nightmare of a fruiterer's shop, are all things of the past.

Electric lights in softly shaded globes threw a pleasant yellow radiance
over everything. A fire of cedarwood logs glowed on the tiled hearth,
and a great bunch of lilac stood in a copper bowl upon a small mahogany
table which was placed between two doors which faced the one leading to
Mrs. Admaston's bedroom.

Some tall silver candlesticks stood upon the Broadwood piano; and there
were others, in which the candles were not lit, upon brackets on either
side of the telephone.

It was just upon midnight when the door of Mrs. Admaston's bedroom
opened and her confidential maid and companion came into the room.
Pauline Toche was a woman of some forty years of age. Her black hair
streaked with grey was drawn tightly back from her forehead. The face, a
little hard and watchful perhaps, nevertheless showed signs of marked
intelligence. The eyes had something of the ferocity but also the
fidelity of a well-trained watch-dog. She was dressed unassumingly
enough in black, and she wore an apron also of some black material.

Such a face and figure may be seen a dozen times in any Breton village,
and more than once her friends had said to Mrs. Admaston that Pauline
seemed to require the coif of her country--the snowy white and goffered
_col_ which is worn over the shoulders; a pair of sabots even!

The maid was a Breton woman, a daughter of one of the millers of
Pont-Aven, and preserved still all the characteristics of that hardy
Celtic race.

As the maid entered the sitting-room there was a knock at the door, and
in response to her "Entrez" a waiter came into the room. He was an
odd-looking person with brilliant red hair--rather a rare thing in
France, but cropped close to his head in the French manner, so that it
seemed to be almost squirting out of his scalp. The man, with his
napkin over his arm, his short Eton jacket, and boots soled with list,
was dressed just like any other waiter in the hotel, but somehow or
other there was something unusual in his aspect.

He carried a tray, and went up to a small round table, gleaming with
cut-glass and silver, on which supper had been laid.

"Are you quite sure there is no train from Chalons before morning?"
Pauline asked the man in French.

"No train before five o'clock, mademoiselle," the man replied. "The last
fast train reaches Paris at eight-forty."

The Breton woman nodded.

"Thank you," she said, gazing at him rather keenly; and then
suddenly--"You're not French, are you?"

With great precision, almost as if he was practising something learnt by
rote and not entirely natural to him, the waiter clicked his heels
together, spread out the palms of his hands, and bowed.

"Mais oui, mademoiselle," he said.

Pauline shook her head slightly.

"You do not deceive me," she said. "There is something about you--you
_are_ a Frenchman?"

The waiter had been piling plates up on a tray. He put the tray down on
the table, smiled with a total change of manner, and answered her.

"No," he said with a grin.

"I knew it," Pauline said. "Is it then that you are Irish, M. Jacques?"

"Most certainly not," replied the waiter.

"I figure to myself that you are English?"

Jacques came up still closer to the maid, his voice dropped, and his
manner became confidential. "Not even quite English, mademoiselle," he
said. "I'm a Scotsman. I was born at Ecclefechan."

"Mon Dieu!" said Pauline; "Eccle----! What a name of barbarity! I did
not know that there were such names. La! la! But your name, monsieur,
your name--Jacques?"

"Mademoiselle speaks English?"

"Quite well," Pauline replied.

"Well, you see, miss, I've been here a long time, and I am a great
favourite with the English visitors. It would never do to tell them that
I'm a Scotsman, and that my real name is Jock. You see, they like to
practise their French on me. The management always send me to wait upon
English visitors. Of course, I can understand what they mean, and it
flatters them to think that they're really speaking French. I heard an
old lady the other day talking to her daughter. 'My dear,' she said,
'those extra French lessons at the High School have not been wasted.
That nice, attentive French waiter understands you perfectly'; and so I
did of course, miss, though when she wanted the mussels she said,
'Esker voos avvy des moulins?' And when she wanted the pastry she
called it 'tapisserie' instead of 'patisserie.' So you see my French
name is one of my great assets, though you, mademoiselle, saw through me
very easily." Here the waiter once more relapsed into his best French
manner and made a flourishing little bow. "Do you stay long in Paris,
mademoiselle?" he asked, going back to the table and beginning to remove
the dishes.

"I can't say," Pauline replied. "As a matter of fact, we are here quite
by accident. We are really going to Switzerland."

"The wrong train?" inquired the waiter.

"Yes, that was it," Pauline answered. "We took the wrong train, and our
party got divided somewhere."

"What bad luck!" Jacques answered. Then he gave a rather searching
glance at Pauline. "But surely M. Collingwood knows the Continent?" he
asked.

The maid gave an almost imperceptible start, and went up to the
fireplace, where she began to pull about the flowers in one of the
vases. "Oh yes, I think so," she answered, in a voice which strove to
appear quite indifferent to the question.

"Well, I can tell you," the waiter went on--"I can tell you that M.
Collingwood knows the Continent as well as a Cook's agent. He's always
travelling about. You can see his name in the Riviera lists, in the
Paris _Daily Mail_ or the _New York Herald_. He's at Nice for the races.
He's at Monte Carlo for the pigeon-shooting. He's at Marienbad for a
cure, or climbing mountains in the Bernese Oberland. He is everywhere,
is M. Collingwood. He was staying here last year, for instance."

The maid turned slowly from the fire and looked towards the
supper-table.

"Yes, yes?" she said with some eagerness. "He is here often? At this
hotel?"

"I can remember him being here three times," the man replied. And there
was something rather furtive in his look, something which seemed to
speak of a suppressed curiosity and watchfulness. Many waiters in smart
hotels, both in London and in Paris, have this look--the veritable
expression of Paul Pry. "Have you been long with Mr. and Mrs. Admaston?"

"I've been many years with madame," Pauline replied. And then, speaking
rather suddenly, "You seem to have a very good memory, Mr. Jock
Jacques."

"It is necessary," the man answered, with all the dryness of a Scotsman.

"And yet sometimes," Pauline replied, "it is necessary not to have a
good memory."

"Perhaps," the waiter answered. "Certainly sometimes discretion is the
better part of recollection," giving her a look of great slyness as he
spoke.

Pauline shrugged her shoulders. There was a note of veiled contempt in
her voice. "To forget easily is sometimes very convenient, n'est-ce
pas?" she said.

"When it is worth more than a good memory," he answered.

"Doubtless you are very well off, Mr. Jock," Pauline continued, and this
time the sneer in her voice was hardly veiled.

At this the waiter began brushing the crumbs from the table very
vigorously. "I'm only a poor waiter," he said.

"Then surely that must be your own fault? There ought to be many
opportunities in a hotel of this sort of making a good use of a
convenient memory?"

"Well, yes, you're right there," came from the man, with a rather
ill-favoured leer. "But, you see, I am too sentimental for that."

Pauline laughed in answer, and not very pleasantly. "Don't tell me," she
said. "I've been in Scotland for the shooting of the grouse. There is no
Scotsman too sentimental to make money. What part of Scotland did you
say you came from? La! la! la! And at your age, too!"

"On the contrary, the older I grow the more sentimental I become."

Pauline shook her head. "Mon Dieu!" she said; "every one knows that
sentiment ends at forty."

The waiter, a quick-witted rogue enough, seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying this midnight conversation. He stood with one arm akimbo, the
other resting on the table, and grinned like a vulgar Mephistopheles.
"If sentiment ends at forty," he said, "you, mademoiselle, will suffer
from it for a long time to come."

"Ma foi, no! No suffering for me," Pauline replied. "I'm a very
practical person. It would take a great deal to make me sentimental."

"I wonder how much?" the man answered. "A nice little hotel with a good
trade, say?"

Pauline shrugged her shoulders. "No, that would mean work. I am used to
seeing a life of sentiment without work."

The waiter once more began to clear the table. "It is a pity we see so
much of what we cannot have," he answered, rattling the coffee-cups and
silver.

Pauline made no reply to this, but stood by the fireplace in silence
