den. His attitude was one of blank dejection; and, on the part of this quiet and rather lonely boy, it was not without pathos. Moreover, when he turned his head at Ogle's impulsive "Hello there," violet tintings under his eyes suggested to the playwright a suspicion that Mlle. Lucie Daurel might not have been the only one to weep, of late, at the villa "Colline des Roses."
Hyacinthe rose, bowed in his formal way, and stood silent, as if respectfully waiting for the older man to say something more.
"You didn't happen to be calling on me again?" the American inquired. "I'm sure I hope so."
"You are very kind," Hyacinthe returned. "No. We have come to stay in the hotel a few days. Then we mus' go to Marseilles."
"'We'? You mean your mother is here with you?"
"In the hotel. Yes, she is here."
Then it appeared that Ogle's doubts about wishing to see Mme. Momoro again had not been well founded. "I wonder if there is an hour when I might call on her," he said. "I wonder if I might"
"I will ask her," Hyacinthe said quietly, and went
