to think that "Thérèse Raquin" and the like were superior to this pure, healthy story?
But heated argument was not what Monsieur Anatole Doucet sought at this moment. Sentiment, the fortuitous contact of congenial spirits, who soared far above the vulgar prejudices of the world,—these and cognate subjects were the fields over which he wished his eloquence to play. In the fervid exposition of his views on the whole duty of man and woman his pace waxed slow, and when, at the end of nearly half an hour, Elizabeth found herself in a dark and narrow street which was unknown to her, she stopped dead short, exclaiming—
"Where are we? Surely we should have reached the pension before this? We must have taken a wrong turning."
"I do not think so," he murmured—"if we continue straight on." Then, looking back, he saw a man's figure approaching—indeed, almost close upon them.
Elizabeth recognized him at the same moment.
"Why, Mr. Baring! How curious our meeting! Monsieur Doucet has literally lost his way!"
"So I see," observed the American, quietly.
"Of course!" the poet hurriedly cut in. "We have borne off too much to the left. I see now."
"Yes. It would have been better to keep to the right."
"We must be near the Rue Cherche-Midi."
"Perhaps." Then turning to Elizabeth, "I do not lose my way about Paris, so you had better accept my guidance back to the pension."
The three walked side by side. Elizabeth talked most. Between the two men few words passed. Baring had
