” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. ‘We don’t know who she is. ” “But I didn’t lose it that way, did I?” She grew hysterical. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room.
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