figure, broad shoulders, and narrow hips to the best advantage. Elizabeth's eye took it all in at a glance. She was conscious that he said something—she did not hear what; that he bowed—but she kept her eyes now fixed on the door, towards which she walked quickly. The dealer was behind her; the man with the waxed moustache at the farther end of the shop. She tried to open the door, did not understand the trick of the handle, and in a moment found another hand, with a murmured, "Pardon; permettez moi, mademoiselle," pressing hers, as it turned the brass knob the contrary way. She snatched away her hand, and as she drew back found Monsieur Melchior's black beard and smiling red lips very close to her. Her indignant eyes flashed upon him for a moment; the next she had passed into the street.
"Quelle Diane Chàsseresse! Who is she, Jacob? English by her accent; but where does she come from?"
The dealer took the card from the table, and handed it to Monsieur Melchior.
"Shaw? Shaw? Ça veut dire 'Bah!' en anglais. Living in a pension? Tiens! What is her business with you, Jacob?"
"She wants me to buy a picture for her."
"Whose? Suppose I buy it and give it her—eh?"
He laughed as he spoke. Seen thus, it was a passionate, sensual faoe, but not malevolent. The dealer shook his head.
"She is not that sort, I fancy, Monsieur Melchior. She is honest and straightforward, and, as you can see, not easy of access. There is some mystery about this affair.
