of professional servility there was a smile.

“I do not want a room,” I said, “but I want to see Mademoiselle Rosa.”

“Ah! As to that, monsieur, I will inquire.” He became stony at once.

“Stay. Take my card.”

He accepted it, but with an air which implied that everyone left a card.

In a moment another servant came forth, breathing apologies, and led me to Rosa’s private sitting-room. As I went in a youngish, dark-eyed, black-aproned woman, who, I had no doubt, was Rosa’s maid, left the room.

Rosa and I shook hands in silence, and with a little diffidence. Wrapped in a soft, black, thin-textured