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M. Laroche smiled.
"'And zy chicks onprofenned by a tearr,'" he repeated softly. "Ah, yes! Indeed!"
No; the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.
The last faint quaver died away, there was a light rustle of skirts, and Miss Sabina stood at the window.
"Good night, monsieur," she said softly.
M. Laroche tossed away the end of his cigarette.
"Vous chantez très bien, mademoiselle," he said, with his inimitable bow. "Good night."
And with this, his invariable phrase, he went to his room off th
