cape him?" I remarked.

"Do you know, Ulrica, I believe he really loves

you."

"Well, and if he does?"

"I thought you told me, only a couple of months ago, that he was the
best-looking man in London, and that you had utterly lost your heart to
him."

She laughed.

"I've lost it so many times that I begin to believe I don't nowadays

possess that very useful portion of the human anatomy. But," she added,
"you pity him, eh? My dear Carmela, you should never pity a man. Not
one of them is really worth sympathy. Nineteen out of every twenty are
ready to declare love to any good-looking woman with money. Remember
your dearest Ernest."

Mention of that name caused me a twinge.

"I have forgotten him!" I cried hotly. "I have forgiven—all that belongs
to the past."

She laughed again.

"And you will go on the Continent with me?" she asked. "You will go
to commence life afresh. What a funny thing life is, isn't it?"

I responded in the affirmative. Truth to tell, I was very glad of that

opportunity to escape from the eternal shopping in the High Street and the
round of Kensington life, which daily reminded me of the man whom I had
loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further mention of
the grief that was wearing out my heart.

At the outset of our pilgrimage to the South of Europe we went to

Paris. In the gay city two women with money and without encumbrances
can have a really good time. We stayed at the "Chatham," a hotel much
resorted to by our compatriots, and met there quite a lot of people we
knew, including several rather nice men whom we had known in London,
and who appeared to consider it their duty to show us the sights, many of
which we had seen before.

 Need I describe them? I think not. Those who read these lines probably
know them all, from that sorry exhibition of terpsichorean art in the
elephant at the Red Windmill down to the so-called cabarets artistiques of
the Montmartre, "Heaven," "Hell," and the other places.

Each evening we dined at six, and went forth pleasure-seeking,

sometimes unattended, and at others with our friends. We were catholic in
our tastes. We saw La Bohême at the Opera, and attended a ball at the
Bullier; we strolled along the carpeted promenade of Aspasia at the Folies
Bergères, and laughed at the quadrilles at the Casino, and at that resort of
the little work-girls, the Moulin la Galette; we listened to the cadence of
Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful voice, and to the patter of the revue at La
Scala; we watched the dancing of La Belle Otero and the statuesque poses
of Degaby. Truly, we had our fill of variety theatres.

In common, too, with the foreigner who goes to "see life" in Paris, we
did the round of the restaurants—from supper at the Cafê de Paris, or the
Cafê Américain, to the humble two-franc dinner at Léon's in the Rue St.
Honoré, or the one-franc-fifty lunch at Gazal's in the Pla