only the pointed head of a white arrow so long that it was feathered at the shore. "Good-bye!" Ogle said, and for a moment he thought of a pretty and sullen girl who might be on her deck—and perhaps looking back. Probably she would never understand that she had reached the climax of her bad manners last night when she "explained" them and added her queer insult to what she seemed to believe was an explanation. But he did not think long of Olivia Tinker. "Now for to-morrow!" he said exultantly.
He meant Mme. Momoro; and in the morning he wrote to her as he breakfasted on a little balcony overlooking the hotel gardens. He merely asked if he might not see her that day, and thought the request eloquence enough; but the address "Villa Colline des Roses" appeared inadequate to him. His balcony, where he sat in the comfortable sunshine, was by the open window of his bedchamber, and a French femme de chambre, who had just said to him "Good-morning, gentleman," was busy within the room. He called to her and showed her the envelope. "Will that do?" he asked. "Could a messenger find this place without having to know the street and number?"
"Monsieur?" She looked seriously at the ad-
