others. He had said nothing to his sister abont going to the theatre; but he had followed them there, and had entered daring the first act. He never left his seat; his eyes, indeed, remained resolutely fixed upon that box when they were not upon the stage. Between the second and third acts Madame Belcour took Narishkine's arm, and wandered out, whispering to Doucet as she left the box—
"She means you to remain. Make the most of your time, mon cher; and when we leave the theatre we will go on in front. You need not follow us too closely."
It facilitated his designs that the lady showed so little jealousy at the transference of his attentions, but possibly his vanity was slightly wounded thereby.
The play was over, and they all drifted out. There was a crowd at the door, and when they reached the open "Place," Madame de Belcour and Narishkine, who were in front, were not to be seen.
"They have walked on; we have but to follow them," said Doucet, as they crossed the Rue de Rivoli, and entered the court of the Louvre.
Still, looking across the wide expanse of asphalte and gravel, Elizabeth saw nothing of her companions. It did not trouble her much. It was a beautiful night, and the road home, she knew, was tolerably direct. She was brimming with enthusiasm aboat the play and the players, and wanted to pour it over some one. The poet was conveniently to hand. He offered her his arm, but that she declined. His brain—his perverted brain—was what she desired to reach. How could he pretend
