was clasped in his dimpled right hand.
"Come, my children," the comic little man exclaimed in a soft, unctuous voice, "let us to our evening worship. Beauty is love, love beauty; that is all ye know and all ye need to know. Come, Chloe, Thisbe, Daphne, Clytie, let us see how well you know the devotion of beauty!"
He waved his stick like a monarch gesturing with his scepter, and drew its claw-tipped end across the strings of his zither, striking a chord, whereat the kneeling girls began singing, or, rather, humming, a lilting, swinging tune vagely reminiscent of Mendelssohn's Spring Song, and four of their number leaped nimbly to their feet, ran lightly to the center of the room, joined hands in a circle and began a dance of light, lithe grace.
Faster and faster their white feet whirled in the convolutions of the dance, their graceful arms weaving patterns of living beauty as they swung in time to the measures of the song. They formed momentary tableaux of sculptural loveliness, only to break apart instantly into quadruple examples of individual posturing such as would have set an artist mad with delight.
The music ceased on a long-drawn, quavering note, the four dancers ran quickly back to their positions in the circle, and dropped again to their knees, extending their arms above their heads and bending their supple hands inward.
"It is well," the fat little man pronounced oracularly. "The day is done; let us to our rest."
The girls rose with a subdued rustling of white garments and separated into whispering, laughing groups, while the little man posed more pompously than ever beside the lighted urn.
"Tiens, Friend Trowbridge," de Grandin whispered with a chuckle, "do you behold how this bantam would make a peacock of himself! He is vain, this one. Surely, we shall spend the night here!
"Monsieur," he emerged from the shadow of the doorway and advanced toward the absurd figure posturing beside the urn, "we are two weary travelers, lost in the midst of these woods, without the faintest notion of the direction of the nearest inn. Will you not, of your so splendid generosity, permit that we spend the night beneath your roof?"
"Eh, what's that?" the other exclaimed with a start as he beheld the little Frenchman for the first time. "What d'ye want? Spend the night here? No, no; I can't have that. Get my school talked about. Couldn't possibly have it. Never have any men in this place."
"Ah, but Monsieur," de Grandin replied smoothly, "you do forget that you are already here. If it were but a question of having male guests at this so wonderful school of the arts, is not the reputation of the establishment already ruined? Surely, a gentleman with so much of the appeal to beauty as Monsieur unquestionably possesses would cause much gossip if he were not so well known for his discretion. And, Monsieur's discretion being already so firmly established, who would dare accuse him of anything save great-heartedness if he did permit two wanderers—and medical men in the bargain—to remain overnight in his house? Permit me, Monsieur; I am Dr. Jules de Grandin, of the Sorbonne, and this is Dr. Samuel Trowbridge, of Harrisonburg, New Jersey, both entirely at your good service, Monsieur."
The little fellow's fat face creased in a network of wrinkles as he regarded de Grandin with a self-satisfied smirk. "Ah, you appreciate the pure beauty of our school?" he remarked with almost pathetic eagerness. "I am Professor Judson—
