out that whatever was unnatural had a strange fascination for him: it was subtle, mysterious, unexpected. The profrssor's little shrill flageolet was heard to say that, whatever else it might be, in some cases it was not unexpected. Elizabeth could not refrain from a protest, which no one heard but Baring, in favour of an untinted skin; and Morin felt bound to remind the audience that he, as a doctor, had written a valuable brochure on the subject. The men at the further end of the table swelled the turmoil, which lasted without cessation until Madame Martineau rose.
George at once came up to Elizabeth, as Alaric Baring left the room.
"I shall not see you again, Miss Shaw. I leave by the club train. Will you not give me some little commission, which may serve as an excuse for my writing to you?"
She shook her head. "I have no commissions in England. I am trying to forget it, and everything in it, except two old men."
"The poor young one will be there in a few hours, who does not wish to be forgotten."
She smiled. "You do not belong to England—to my England, I mean. You belong to my Paris; and though oar acquaintance has been so short, I shall not forget you." Then, in her odd, sudden way, she added, looking him straight in the face, "I think you are honest, Mr. George."
He coloured to the roots of his hair; it was a very inconvenient trick nature played him at times.
"Tell me I may come back here in the winter?" he said in a low voice.
