The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 11, 1904, Page 4

7, . g e F = PN S\ - shall be sufficient on either g my luggage in and Arna asked. 1f I had had would have send that cabma Dear me, what a relie: man rvant shall bring ay the fare, too, ew out her purse at once. a good Samaritan,” 1 am perfectly certain to be rude to me. g it up all the way gton.” the bell she said, “and I ur room. And would ng a little. You won't the first evening, and ong. excuse my mention- t blouse and a little will be, quite suffi- vour first evening, and earl ns do count for so much. You d me, I'm sure. as a little puzzled, but she s laughed. as I've only just arrived,” remarked, “I might be forgiven if o not change my skirt. I packed so edly that it will take me a long my things.” ly,” Mrs. White assured her. " rtainly. I'll. mention it. You're tired, of course. This is your room. The gong will go at seven-thirty. Don’t be late if you can help it.” S B Wi e e Anna was not late, but her heart sank within her when she entered the drawing-room. It was not a hopeful looking group. Two or three podgy king old men with wives to match, & dozen overdressed girls and a ple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over Lon- since breakfast time. A sprink- f callow youths and a couple of nounced young Jews, who were g loudly together in some unin- gible jargon of the city. What had e to do with such as these? She had rd work to keep a smiling face, as Whi who had risen to greet ed with a formal and, from a’s point of view, a wholly unnec- round of introductions. And A young man light, dark, and with her’s gray .eyes—came the room to her. You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he “I am very glad that here. I heard from David about you only this morning.” have come “You are marvelously like your brother,” Anna said, beaming upon him. *I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room toward 2 window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an even- ing paper in his hand. “Let me introduce my friend to you,” Courtlaw said. “Arthur, this is Miss Pellissier—Mr. Brendon. Brendon and e great chums,” he went on ner- vously. “I don’t think that the rest of people here like us very well, do Arthur, so we're obliged to be friends.” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more self-possessed than Sydney Courtlaw. “Sydney is quite right, Miss Pellis- sier,”” he said. “He and I don't seem to get on at all with our fellow-guests, as Mrs. White calls them. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. It is a most inauspicious start for you. “Dear me,” Anna laughed, “how un- fortunate! What ought I to dp? Should I be forgiven, do you think, if I were to go and hold that skein of wool for the old lady in the yellow cap?” “Don’t speak of her irreverently,” DBrendon said, in an awed whisper. “Her husband was a county councilor, 2nd rhe has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage. I wish she wouldn't look like that at us over her glasses.” Horace, the man servant, transform- ed now into the semblance of a correct- ly garbed waiter, threw open the door. “Dinner is served, ma'am,” he an- nounced to Mrs. White. There was no rush. Everything was done in a genteel and ordinary way; but, on the other hand, there was no lingering. Anna found herself next Sydney Courtlaw, with his friend close at hand. Opposite to her was a sallow- visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtrusively shiny black across the front of a high. close-drawn collar. As a rule, Court- law told her softly, he talked right and left and to everybody throughout the whole of the meal. To-night he was al- most silent and seemed to devote his whole attention to staring at Anna. After the first courses, however, she scarcely noticed him. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her. “I ecan't imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon sald, leaning toward her, “whatever made you think of coming 1o stay if only for a week at a Monta- gue-street boarding-house. Are you going to write a novel?” Not 1" she answered gayly. “I came to London unexpectedly and my friends could not take me in. T had a vague sort of idea that this was the region where one finds apartments, so I told my cabman to drive in this direction while I sat inside the vehicle and en- deavored to form a plan of campaign. He brought me past this house, and T thought I would call and leave your brother's letter. Then I saw Mrs White—" “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. “You were booked, of course. An unexpected vacancy, wasn't it? Every one comes in on un- expected vacancy.” “And they go?” “When they get the chance. It really isn't so easy as it seems. We have come to the conclusion—Brendon and 1—that Mrs. White is psychologically gifted. She throws a sort of spell over us all. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. She calls us ber guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. We simply can’t get away. There's the old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding is his name. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he's as much a fixture as that sham ma- hogany sideboard. Every one will grumble to you confidentially—Miss El- Jicot, she's our swagger young lady, vou knew, up there, next Mrs. White; she will tell you that it's so out of the world here—so far away from every one one knows. Old Kesterton, choleric- looking individual nearly te, will curse the cooking till he's black in the ng young man OppoOs to have been comunitting mory piecemeal, will tell you 0 bored in all s here. Yet he stays. ooki rourself?” laughed. , we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but 1 think that we are 1 i v because it is cheap. It is cheap, vou know. To appre- t you should try rooms.” this a fair sample of the din- ner?’ Anna asked, who had the healthy appetite of a strong young woman. “It is, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted. Anna said nothing. The young man opposite was straining his ears to lis- ten to their conversation. Mrs. White caught her eye and smiled benignly down the table. “1 hope that Mr. Courtlaw is looking after you, Miss Pellissier,” she said. “Admirably, thank you,” Anna an- swered. The young lady with frizzled hair, hom Brendon had pointed out to her Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’ side. She had very frizzy hair indeed, very black eyebrows, a profusion of metallic adornments about her neck and waist and an engaging smile. “We are so interested to hear, Miss Pellissier,” she said, “‘that you have been living in Paris. We shall expect you to tell us all what to wear.” Anna smiled very faintly and shook her head. “I have come from a very unfashion- able quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milii- ner’'s shop for a year. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. Paris copies London.” Brendon leaned over confidentially. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. “Your success here is abso- lutely meteoric. Mjss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr. Bullding is going to. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. I am not sure, but I believe that he Has just thought of something.’” May I be prepared?” Anda asked. hich is Mr. Bullding?” “Stout old gentleman four places down on the left. Look out, it's com- ing.” Anna raised her eyes and caught the earnest gaze of an elderly gentleman with a double chin, a protuberant un- der lip and a snuff-stained coat. “I was in Paris four vears ago,” Mr. Bullding announced solemnly. “It rained the whole of the time, but we saw all the sights and the place never seemed dull.” “It takes a great deal of bad weather to depress the true Parisian,” Anna admitted. “A volatile temperament—yes, a vol- atile temperament,” Mr. Bullding re- peated, rather struck with the phrase. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly.” Anna nodded and turned again to Courtlaw. “I will not be drawn into a conversa- tion with Mr. Bullding,” she declared. “I believe that he would bore me. Tell me, what are these bananas and nuts for?” “Dessert.” Anna laid down her serviette. “Let us escape,” she said. “Couldn’t we tpree go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyzes me.” Brendon laughed softly. “We can,” he said, “and we will. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn't expected. Mrs. White is proud of her drawing-room evenings. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and the blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, vou know. Strangers look in and long, and neighbors are moved to envy.” : Anna hesitated no longer. She al- most sprang to her feet. Conscious of Mrs, White's surprise as she swung easily down the room, followed by the two young men, she smiled a careless explanation at her. “I am dying to renew my acquaint- ance with London, Mrs. White,” she remarked. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dis- mayed. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. “Why not? They tell me that London is impossible till after 10, and I want my first impressions to be favorable.” “There will be some coffee and music ir the drawing-room in a few minutes,” Mrs. White said. “Thanks, I'm not very fond of cof- fee,” Anna answered, “and I "hate music. Good night.” Mrs. White gasped, and then stiff- ened. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads and liked Brandon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. Anna paseed serenely out. CHAPTER IX. Some Confidences and a Supper. They found their way to a music- hall. Seated high up near the ceiling —she had insisted upon cheap places— Anna, whose appetite for fresh things was as the appetite of a child, in- fected her two escorts with something of her own gayety. Even on her first night she saw many things which moved her to wonder. “Will you tell me,” she exclaimed, leaning forward and touching Brendon upon the arm. “Why do not the people laugh? They have finished their day’s work—this is their relaxation. Why do they not talk to one another and be happy? Look along this row, and that,” she exclaimed., motioning with her hand. “Is it a matter of con- sclence or digestion, or what?” “‘Of temperament only,” Brendon as- sured her. “Englishmen are proverbial, you know, for taking their pleasures sadly.” “Sadly! What a hideous philosophy. ‘We shall become a nation of dyspeptics. How can an artist sing or dance to such a wooden wall? Ah!” Her eyes twinkled with fun. She was leaning over and looking into the stalls. Sir John, white gloved, white walistcoated, curled and debonair, was whispering into Annabel’'s ear, while Miss Pel- lissier on the next seat affected to be absorbed in her programme. = “Oh, this is funny,” Anna murmur- ed. “Iam so glad we came here.” Do tell us the joke,” Sydney Court- Jaw begged. She shook her head regretfully. - “It is too bad,” she declared. *“I can- not! But you must tell me this. Is it supposed in this dear, hypocritical old city to be quite respectable to be in the two shilling places at the Empire?” Brendon smiled. . { SR THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. “I am not sure,”” he said, “‘but that this is not the most respectable part in' the hcase. Certainly we could give points to the stalls.” Anna sighed. She pointed. the same,” she murmured to “I wish that Sir John could seemed disap- see us.’ Afterward she insisted upon sup- per, and on being hostess. “Somewhere ridiculously cheap,” she said, brigkly. “Somewhere where there are a great many people to be seen.” They took her tc Prascati's, protest- ing firmly all the way against being her guests. But she was firm. “After to-night,” she declared, *“‘we will all share up. It is the only possi- ble way, if you will bring me out with you sometimes. But to-night—no. I must be hostess. I have the whim for it. Mrs. White has started all the quicksilver in me, somehow. What a dinner—and what people!” “You will never stay there,” they both declared, in despair. p “‘Oh, I am not so sure,” ghe answered cheerfully. *“‘One can amuse oneself anywhere, and if you two are nice to me—who knows? I am enjoying this ng immensely, but if I do not one real laugh at supper-time I shall have hysterics. What do they do with their spirits, these people? Do they bottle them up? They talk—their lips seem to be moving always, but their faces are dead.” ‘Wherever they went Anna attracted attention. Her unusual beauty, the distinction of her quiet clothes and elegant carriage, the Madonna-like calm of her features, broken up every now and then by the restless fire of her lips and eyes, seemed to turn peo- ple’s heads toward her in the street, the theater and the restaurant. And withal she was possessed of the most sublime unconsciousness. She seemed positively ignorant of the fact that she was in any way distinguished from the crowd. But when they were seated in the restaurant' she certainly gazed abcut her with something akin to won- der. ¢ “But what manner of people are these?” she asked. “Where do they come from? Have they been dug out of the country places? Are they really Londoners?” “Nine-tenths of them,” Brendon an- swered. “Perhaps more. But you must remember that this is a cheap place.” “Of course. It is what I wanted. I wanted to see the small shopkeeper and his wife, the working girls and their beaux—the lower middle classes.” “They are here,” Brendon answered. “You can pick them out easily enough. They are jumbled up with the flotsam from the streets and they probably feel for an hour or two that they are leading terrible lives. the artists?” Anna asked. “Where do they go to? What is their quarter?” Brendon laughed. “I think,” he said, “that our artists are like our soldiers—they loathe the signs of their calling and come out al- ways in mufti. You find the successful ones at the smart restaurants, the me- diocre ones at the artists’ clubs and the failures on the streets. They are not to be distinguished as in Paris. They form no society of their own. They take their place in the great world ac- cording to their standing, and like all other Englishmen they aim in their clothing and speech and deportment at the great negative manner.” § oo ‘!'lwmch means,” Sydney remarked, “the deletion of dividuality.§ It is good for the lmlrdrugr 4 “Dear me,” Anna murmured. 'Y‘hu a lot I am learning about my coufitry- people! Now tell me, please, if I am not too inquisitive, what do you two boys do? You work, I suppose?” “Thank you, Miss Pellissier,” Bren- don remarked. “It is a good many years since I have been called a boy. I am a clerk in a bank, if you know what that is.” “I can guess,” Anna answered. “I suppose it is very interesting, It sounds a little—" “It not only sounds, but it is,” don interrupted, “a deadly grind.” “And Sydney?” “I sit at the next desk,” Sydney an- swered. “Only, of course, I'm Bren- don's junior by a good bit. I wanted to be an artist like David, but I came to grief.” “So did 1” Anna declared. “Your brother knocked all that out of me.” Sydney was incredulous. “David doesn’t often make mistakes,” he said, “but—" “He made no mistake about me,” Anna declared. “I do not believe that I have even the temperament of an artist. I shall always be thankful to him for being—well—brutally frank to me., It is such a waste of time, isn't it, ham- mering away at something which is not one’s metfer.” Brendon sighed. “There are very many of us,” he sald, “who have all our lives to be doing that sort of thing.” “If ong knows it,” Anna said, “there is always a means of escape.” ‘Some of us,” Brendon answered dry- ly, “have our livings to earn.” Anna laughed, and laughed again to herself softly. How about herself? She had barely sgufficient money in her purse—in the world—to keep her for a week. Yet her face was bravely enough set toward the future. Its very difficul- ties were an inspiration. “I really do not see,” she said, “why one should not be able to earn one's living in a pleasant way.” ““The pleasantest things in the world,” Brendon answered, ‘“‘become drudgery ‘when one has to do them. “That is very well Anna de- clared, “but Wurely the things which appeal most to one are the things one is likely to do best.” “It is an admirable theory,” Brendon sald slowly. “The pity of it is that it so0 seldom works out in actual life.” “Theories won't work themselves out,” Anna declared lightly. “If we dor’t make them prove themselves the fault is often our own, isn't it? Please ask for the bill, Sydney. I really can't call you Mr. Courtlaw, you know, after having called your brother that for so long. This place is garish. It makes my eyes and my head ache.” They passed out into the cool streets, Anna drew a little sigh of relief. ““Ah, this is better,” she exclaimed. “Don’t let us hurry home. I want to look about me. Streets, streets, streets! Is there no green anywhere to rest one’s eyes?” . They took her into Piccadilly and walked slowly along under the trees of the green park. She plied them with numberless questions. There were so many vhases of/life which were strange to her, so mich that she want- ed to understand. But in the middle of an animated conversation she sud- denly stopped short upon the pavement. They were under the portico of a celebrated restaurant, from which the ren- hr; people were just emerging after sup- per. A tall commissionaire was stand- ing by the door of a small handsome brougham. Sir John, with Annabel and her aunt in close attendance, were crossing the pavement. It chanced that Annabel turned her head, and for a moment the eyes of the two sisters met. Sir John aiso looked around, and seeing Anna frowned severely. He bent down and whispered something in his companion’s ear. She nodded and suffered herself to be handed into the carriage. Both Brendon and Sydney Courtlaw plunged instantly into some alien sub- ject of conversatien. But Anna's low laugh, although not altogether mirth- ful, brushed away the moment of em- barrassment. “You see,” she said, “I am a very black sheep indeed. My own people will have nothing to do with me.” “It was your sister, of course?” Syd- ney remarked softly. *“What a mar- velous likeness!™ & “Yes, it was my sister,” Anna an- swered. *‘I suppose that we are very much alike.” The carriage vanished round a cor- ner. Something which looked like a white handkerchief fluttered from the window. For a few moments Anna re- mained silent. Her high spirits flagged. They walked aimlessly alongpg the two young men glancing furtively at one another. Then with a little exclama- tion she recovered herself. “Dear me, how absurd!” she ex- claimed. *“As if London were not large enough for both of us. Please tell me, Mr. Brendon, ought we to be out so late as this? Will Mrs. White give me notice?” “We have latchkeys,” they both as- sured her. She smiled. “Capital! Don’t hurry.then. to look around me.” So they threaded their way through the loitering groups of men and wo- men. Anna frequently paused to look about her, often perplexed, more than once astonished. “I do not understand these pecple at all,” she declared. *“There are none who seem realty to be enjoying them- selves, except those who have had too much to drink. All these others, they come from their evening’s pleasure as though from hours of labor.” “The Londoner and the Parisian are as far apart as the poles,” Sydney re- minded her. “The Parisian hums a gay tune as he walks homeward -and thinks over his evening’s entertain- ment. The Englishman wonders how he will sleep, thinks of the morrow’s work, and reckons up how much his evening's pleasure has cost him.” Anna shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me to be patriotic, then,” she remarked. “And yet, you know, one feels nearer to life here. Levity fits the Parisian like a glove, his very capacity for it seems belittling. See how different it is here, what a strug- gle it all is to appear light hearted. The forced smile cracks the rouge on these women's cheeks. It is hideously unnatural, one feels conscious all the time of the tragedy underneath. And the men, those who are not flushed with wine, are dull-footed, pale. They come and go like spectral figures. One feels that they are only adding to the toils of the day in this half-hearted pursuit of relaxation.” Brendon looked at her curiously. “I wonder,” he said, “is this the cyn- icism of the very young, or do we real- ly seem like it to you?” “I am not young,” Anna answered, nd I am not a cynic. If I am unjust I shall find it out very soon. I simply speak of thi as I see them.” Brendon, with regret, took out his latchkey. They passed into the dimly 1it ball of their boarding-house, and Anna, after discreet good nights, went softly upstairs. The two young men tiptoed their way into a small room* at the back of the house, called by csurte:y the smoking-room. Horace, rdused from his slumbers, was bribed to bring them whisky. CHAPTER X. Brendon’s Luck. PARIS, 15th . “You have not kept your promise. You were to have let me know how this mad enterprise of yours prosper- ed. Yet since you left Paris I have not had a single line from you. All that I know I have to glean from Syd- ney’s none too coherent letters. “I cannot picture you in a Mon- tague street boarding-house. Have you hot begun to realize yourself that you have made a mistake? Come back here, Anna! A thousand times I have felt like biting out my tongue which sent you into such ridiculous and in- appropriate exile. Come back here, and I will force the genius which is in you out of your fingers on to can- I like vas. You took my hasty words too seriously. They were not meant to be final. Come back, or I shall fetch you. The savor has gone out of my days. I am restless and my work wearies me. Come and I will drag you up to suc- cess. Mind, this is a warning. Ishall keep my word. It is a matter of ten hours, of half a day, a trifie! If you do not come to me, I shall come to you. Y “Ever your lover, “DAVID COURTLAW.” The letter dropped from her fingers. Anna was alone and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. . She was a little paler than when she had come to Lon- don, a little paler and a little thinner. There were dark rims under her eyes. soft now with unshed tears. For this three week4 had been the hardest of her life. There had been disappoint- ments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. Never- theless, she was still fighting. She drew pen and paper toward her and clenched her teeth as she wrote: ‘“Dear Friend -—— What nonsense! Ycur words scarcely even hastened my decision. For months I had been struggling with that hideous inability to express a single coherent thing, with a dead brush and stiff fingers. In al. our friendship there iz nothing for which I have felt moré grateful to you tban when you paid me the rare com- pliment of telling me an unpleasant truth. “Why should you think and write of me as an outcast? Believe me, life is very amusing here. I have not final- 1y settled which of the arts or profes- sicns shall have the honor of provid- ing me with my daily bread, but that will come. - One thing, however, I have finally decided. I have put my brushes away absolutely and inevit- ably, at any rate for the present. Nothing shall induce me to changs my mind as regards this. Nor shall I for some time at any rate return to Paris. You know, dear friend, that neither my instincts nor my training incline toward the conventional, but when you write to me as though you were in some measure the keeper of my ways you force me to remind you of our last interview and the answer which 1 gave you. You must please consider that, for the present at any rate, as final. It is enough for me to say this, is it not? “Some day I will amuse you with an account of my life here. Just now I am not in the humor for letter-writ- ing. Sydney is a dear boy and has been very kind to me indeed. Don't write again just yet. Letters are always a distraction as well as a solace. Just now I want to eoncentrate myself and my thoughts upon on2 thing, and one thing only. Ever yo\u{s. “And that one thing,” Anna said to herself softly, as she leaned for a mo- ment back in her chair, “is how to pay my next week’s bill to Mrs. White. It ought not to be much. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and— come in.” Sydney Courtlaw followed his timid knock. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. “Is this a concession to Mrs. White?” she asked, laughing. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner.” “Not exactly,” he answered nervou ly. “Please forgive my coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and— Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell.” “Never better in my life,” Anna de- clared briskly. “I had lunch very late to-dav. and I did not get home in time for dinner.” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch — tea and roll at an aerated bread shop. Sydney was watch- + ing her eagerly. “I'm glad you're all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favor. Brandon's had an awful stroke of luck.” . “I'm delighted,” she exclaimed. “Do tell me all about it.” “He only heard this afternoon,” Syd- ney continued. “An uncle in New York is dead and has left him loads of money. A lawyer has come all the way from America about it. We want to celebrate, and we want you to help us. Brendon suggests supper at the Carlton. We meant to make it din- ner and a theater, but you were not at home.” Anna shook her head dubiously. “It i{s ever so nice of you to have waited,” she said, “but you know the arrangement we made. Shares in ev- erything, and—" “But this is an exception, surely,” Sydney protested. ‘‘Besides, you in- sisted upon being hostess that first evening, and this is ogly a return. Don't disappoint Bren: It's an awful stroke of luck for him, you know, especially as he hated the bank so0; but it’ll spoil it all for him if you don't come. He'll be quite hurt, too.” Anna hesitated. She was really very hungry indeed. “You are quite sure that this is not an excuse of Mr. Brendon’s? You boys have been so kind to me, and—" “Positive,” Sydney declared. “It's a dead cert. I've seen the papers, and Brendon has heaps of money already to be going on with. Youll come, won't you? We thought of starting in half an hour’s time and try for a theater somewhere on the way.” Anna nodds *“Delightful she exclaimed. “T'Il come. Run away now, please. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear.” In the drawing-room below a whisper of Brendon's good fortune had gone round. Miss Amelia Ellicot held out both her hands and looked inexpressible things into his eyes. “You know that I am glad,” she said to him, with- a most becoming mixture of modesty and effusion. “I can’t tell you how glad before all these people.” She dropped her eyes and wandered off to a remote corner of the room, whither Brendon did not follow her. Her mother made whispered comments to Mrs. White on Milly's sensitiveness, which were easily overheard by every one in the room. Mr. Bullding, aban- doning a position of portly ease upon the hearthrug, came and patted Bren- don gently on the back. “Let me give you a word of advice, young man,” he said solemnly. “You will, I presume, abandon your present accupation and enjoy a brief period of idleness. Presently that idleness will begin to pall. You will look about for something to do. Go in for public life. There is nothing more expanding, more thoroughly satisfactory, than to serve one’'s coun! n one’s leisure hours. You will never regret it. I speak, as I dare say you know, from experience. For fourteen years I represented Sprox- ton upon the Worcestershire County Council. I have only to show myself there to-day a#d I am instantly recog- nized. Every man and boy in the place touches his hat to me. That thing is always—er—most gratifyins. Of course, it is scarcely likely that you will be able to begin your career with the City Council; that may come by and by; but there are minor offices in which you may—may serve your ap- prenticeship in public life. I myself started by being the overseer of an im- portant parish.” The Semitic young gentleman, who had been hanging restlessly around during the ex-County Councilor’s ora- tion, laid his finger persuasively on Brendon's coat sleeve. “Look here,” he whispered. “You're fond of the theater and that sort of thing, aren’t you? If you care for a lit- tle flutter in a new production—there’s a gold mine in the piece, s'help me. I believe I could get you a fifth share. It’s a comic opera, with some ripping songs and dances; bound to take like wildfire. Of course, it means going be- hind whenever you like, and you stand 0. K. with all the girls. Friend of mine in the city's running the syndicate. ‘What do you say? Will you come down and see him?” y “I'll think about it,” Brenddn de- clared. “I fancy it's scarcely in my line.” “But it's a real good thing,” the young man urged. “I wouldn’t men- tion it excent for your being one of us here. It’s a real bit of all right. I don't mind telling you, I've money in it my- self; and it's got to go, sure as my name’s Gudden.” Brendon detached himself good- humoredly. Mrs. White beckoned him to her side. “I suppose, Mr. Brendon,” she said, looking up at him with an engaging smile, “that we shall lose you now.” “Not just at present, I think,” Bren- don answered. “It will take several months to settle things up, and then I may have to go to America.” Mrs. White nodded. “It will be very nice if you stay with us till then,” she said. “I am sure we shall all be sorry when you go. How sort of . smart you and Mr. Courtlaw look this evening!"” she added. I suppose you are off to celebrate somewhere?” “We are going out to supper,” Bren- don answered. “I am only sorry we can’t take the whole lot of you,” he added pleasantly. “How nice of you!” Mrs. White mur- mured. “Eighteer®would be rather too many, wouldn't it?" Miss Ellicot remarked, with a little conscious s “I tnink supper parties are such fun. “We thought of going to the Carl- ton,” Brendon said: “Oh!™ Miss Ellicott's was long drawn and expressive. ile. interjection “How perfectly lovely! It's the one place in the world I am dying to see. Do look around at all the people and the dresses, and find out who is there, and describe it 21l to us poor stay-at-homes to-morrow. Oh!" This second interjection was of a different character. Anna stood upon the threshold buttoning her gloves, and something very like sensation rippled from one to the other. They had none of them seen Anna in evening dress. They had probably never been in the same room with a black gown fash- joned by an expert Parisian dress- maker. She wore no jewels. Her neck and arms were bare. Her weonderful brown hair, curving low over her fore- head, was drawn back with a grace which a professional coiffeur could scarcely have matched. Even her pal- lor seemed to add to that marvelous distinction of presence, so subtle and yet so unmistakable a gift. The women felt suddenly tawdry and old-fash- ioned. Miss Ellicot lost all faith in the blouse which a few moments ago had given her every satisfaction, and as for her ornaments, she could have torn them from her neck and arms and thrown them into the fireplace. She went slowly red and then pale. She had lost her place at 13 Montague street. She was wholly and entirely eclipsed. There was not a male pair of eyes in the place which were not shin- ing with admiration. Anna, utterly unconscious, or at any rate indifferent to the sensation which she had evoked, came a little further into the room. “Mr. Brendon is going to take us to the Cariton,” she remarked pleasantly to Mrs. White. “Isn’t it nice of him?” “Very,” Mrs. White answered, with some reserve. ‘“Are you sure that you won't catch cold with nothing on your shoulders?” ““Well, I shall have to risk it,” Anna declared, with a soft little laugh. “I don’t possess an opera cloak.” Miss Ellicot rose heroically. “I will lend you mine,” she said. “I don’t think you ought to .go out like that.” Anna, who had seen Miss Ellicot's opera cloak, stopped her. “It is so nice of you,” she said, “but I really do not need it. I have a plece of lace outside I can twist round my head and shoulders. I am quite ready now, Mr. Brendon. Good-night, every- body.” They departed, leaving behind them almost a dead silence. Mr. Gudden had done nothing but simply stare at Anna from the moment of her en- trance. Even after her departure he remained looking at the door through which she had issued. Miss Ellicot broke the spell. “Well,” she said impressively. “What there was about that dress, I can't imagine, except that it seemed more like a skin than anything, but I never saw anything look so indecent in my life.” “She looked like one of those new- fashioned posters,” Mrs. White re- marked, “or like one of those French women who come over to the music- halls, and drive about with mules and poodles with diamond bracelets.” Every one had something to say. Mr. Gudden alone was silent. He had removed to a distant window, and was standing there with folded arms. “If I can't remember where I've seen her, who she is in two minutes,™ he murmured to himself, “I shall have fits. S'help me I shall.” CHAPTER XL . An Encounter at the Cariton. % “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “re- minds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations.” “And the people?” Brendon asked. “What do you think of them?” Anna extended her critical survey and shrugged her shoulders. “What can one say?” she ex- claimed. “Did you ever see women 80 weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbor's dresses through those hate- ful glasses. It never seems to enter their heads to try and amuse their menkind.” “I guess they want a few more American women here,” Sydney re- marked. “I can see what you mean. There's a sort of frozen way about so many of these English people.” Anna nodded. “After all,” she saild, “I suppose it is because we do not understand what is correct. Vivacity is no doubt bad form. But why people come to such places if they do not mean to enjoy themselves I cannot imagine.” “To show their jewels and their husbands to their enemies,” Brendon remarked. “Poor husbands,” Anna exclaimed compassionately. “Some day they will rebel. I believe that my sympathies will not be with my sex.” Two young men on their way down the room came suddenly to a stand- still before Anna. The foremost, tall, clean-shaven, perfectly .groomed, half extended his hand with a smile of re- cognition. ““Miss Pellissier, isn’t {t?” he said. “Glad to see you in London. No idea that you were here, though.” Anna looked up with a doubtful smile of non-recognition. “My name is certainly Pellissier,” she said, “but I am very sorry—I do not recognize you in the least™ The tall young man dropped his eyeglass and smiled. “Had the pleasure of dining with you at the Embassador’'s one night before the show, you know—Ilast Sep- téember I think it was. Charley Peve- nill was our host. My name is Army- tage—Lord Ernest Armytage.” Anna had suddenly stiffened. She regarded the young man coldly. Her tone was icy. “I am afraid thatyou are making a mistake,” she said. “I was never at any such dinner, and I am quite sure that I do not know you.” “Perhaps you remember me, Miss Pellissier,” the second young man in- terposed. “I had the pleasure of—er —meeting you more than once, I be- (Continued next Sunday.)