had thought that I had left my title, along with my profession, on the other side."
"In Paris; it was there I saw you."
"In Paris?" Rondelet smiled, his whole face lighting up with a look of unspeakable pleasure. It was as if a lover had suddenly heard the name of his absent mistress.
"Yes; ah, how you miss it! I feel it in your voice," said Miss Ruysdale, her own voice growing, in sympathy, a trifle less like the murmur of cool running water than at first.
"Miss it? Ye gods, how I miss it! I suffer for it. Where did you see me? I never can have seen you; I should not have forgotten your face."
"It was at the hospital, where I went once to make the portrait of a dying child for its mother. You took care of the little fellow André; don't you remember him,—the son of your concierge?"
"To be sure, poor little soul! How bravely he bore it all! It was better that he died; he could never have walked again. You, then, mademoiselle, are the young art student who paid—"
Miss Ruysdale interrupted him,—
"Yes, yes, I was his friend. How long is it since you left Paris?"
"A month, a year, a cycle,—I cannot say.
