late, he saw the look of desperate courage in her tired little face as she ignored her own hurt and thought only of how she might contrive to give him the extra luxury. Thirteen years too late it wrung his heart and brought tears to his eyes. And now, with only the memory of her unfailing support, he had his own life to construct, upon all too uncertain foundations.
As he went about the altered city,—especially altered for him since the exodus of thousands of trying compatriots,—he caught occasional glimpses of the earnestness that lay beneath the much-advertized frivolity of Paris. He also caught occasional glimpses of the man that dwelt behind his own mask, a man far too serious for the meagre shadow he seemed destined to cast. Each day he divested himself of some prejudice or illusion. Shorn lamb! he half angrily commiserated with himself one afternoon, and on a sudden impulse turned toward the house in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.
For once it was empty, and when his name was sent up a joyful yell summoned him to a colossal bedroom, where he found the princess in a satin peignoir spraying herself with perfume.
"Just making myself smell presentable," she said, reaching out her plump arm. "How you been honey? Haven't seen you for a dog's age. . . Blue?"
"A little."
"Tell Flossie. How do I smell?"
"Like a bloody drug-store," said Grover.
