very often kept until five o'clock when the champagne was flowing and when it would have been criminal in the eyes of the management to break up a profitable party. She found that the four hundred and fifty francs a month was not enough to keep her in Petersburg; it had sounded a reasonably large salary in Paris, but it barely paid the board at Mère Gontran's; she was, therefore, dependent for everything above this on the commission of about five francs she received on each bottle of champagne opened under her patronage. Fortunately it seemed to give pleasure to the wild frequenters of this cabaret when a bottle was knocked over on the floor; yet with every device it was not always possible to escape drinking too much.

One day at the beginning of July, Sylvia discussed the future with Carrier, and he advised her to surrender and return to England; he even offered to lend her the money for the fare. It was a hot day, and she had a bad headache; she called it a headache, but it was less local than that: her whole body ached beneath a weight of despair. Sylvia had taken Carrier into her confidence about her broken marriage and explained why it was impossible to return to England yet awhile; he contested all her arguments, and in the mood that she was in she gave way to him. They spoke in French, and arguments always seemed more incontestable in a language that refused to allow anything in the nature of a vague explanation; besides, her own body was responding against her will to the logic of surrender.

"Pride is all very well," said Carrier. "I am proud of being the greatest aviator of the moment, but if I fall and smash myself to pulp, what becomes of my pride? It's impossible for you to lead the life you are leading now without debasing yourself, and then where will your pride be? Listen to me. You have been at the cabaret very little over a month, and already it is telling upon you. It is very good that you are able even for so long to keep men at a distance, but are you keeping them at a distance? For me it is the same thing logically if you drink with men or—" He shrugged his shoulders. "You sell your freedom in either case. N'est pas que j'ai raison, ma petite Sylvie? For me it would be a greater pride to return to England and walk with my head in the air and laugh at the world. Besides, you have a je ne sais quoi that will prevent the world from laughing, but if you continue you will have nothing. When I fall and smash myself to pulp, I sha'n't care about the world's laughter. Nor will you."

Indeed he was right, Sylvia thought. That first impulse of defiance seemed already like a piece of petulance, the gesture of a spoiled child.

"And you will let me, as a good copain, lend you the money for your fare back?"

"No," Sylvia said. "I think I can just manage to earn it by going once more to-night to the cabaret. I've arranged to meet some count with an unpronounceable name, who will probably open at least twenty-four bottles. I get my week's salary to-night also. I shall have, with what I have saved, enough to travel back as I came, third class. It has been a thoroughly third-class adventure, mon vieux. A thousand thanks for your kindness, but I must pay my pride the little solace of earning enough to get me home again."

Carrier shrugged his shoulders.

"It must be as you feel. That I understand. But it gives me much pleasure that you are going to be wise. I wish you de la veine to-night."

He pressed upon her a mascot to charm fortune into attendance; it was a little red devil with his tongue sticking out.

Sylvia went down to the cabaret that evening with the firm intention of its being the last occasion; her headache had grown worse all the afternoon and the gloom upon her spirit was deepening. What a fool she had been to run away with so much assurance of having the courage to endure this life, what a fool she had been! For the first time the thought of suicide presented itself to her as a practical solution of everything. In her present state she could perceive not one valid argument against it. Who had attacked existence with less caution than she, and who had deserved more from it in consequence? Had she once flinched? Had she once taken the easier path? Yes, there had been Arthur; that was the first time she had given way to indecision, and how swiftly the punishment had followed. Was it really worth while to seek now to repair that mistake? Was anything worth while? Except to go suddenly out of it all, passing as abruptly from life to death as she had passed from one society to another, one tour to another, one country to another. She would abide by to-night's decision; if fortune put it into the head of the count with the unpronounceable name to buy enough bottles of champagne to make up what was still wanting to her fare, she would return to England, devote herself to her work, turn again to books, watch over her godchildren, and live at Mulberry Cottage. If, on the other hand, the fare should not be made up on this night, why, then she should kill herself. To-night should be a night of hell. How her body was burning; how vile the people smelled in this tram; how wearisome was this garish sunset. She took from her velvet bag the red devil that Carrier had given her; in this feverish atmosphere it had a certain fitness, a portentousness even; one could almost believe it really was a tribute to fate.

The cabaret was crowded that evening; never before had there been such a hurly-burly of greed and thirst. Sylvia, by good luck, was feeling thirsty; for the dust from the tram had parched her mouth, and her tongue was like cork; so much the better, because if she was going to win that champagne she must be able herself to drink. The tintamarre of plates, knives, and forks; the chickerchack as of multitudinous apes; the blare and glare would have prevented the loudest soprano in the world from sounding more than the squeak of a slate-pencil; and Sylvia sang with gestures alone, forming with her lips mute words. "I'm paid for my body, not for my voice; so let my body play the antic," she muttered, angrily.

When her turn was over, Sylvia came down and joined the two young Russians, who were waiting for her with another girl at a table on which already the bottles of champagne were standing like giant pawns.

"Ils ont la cuite," the girl whispered to Sylvia. "Alors, il faut briffer, chérie; autrement ils seront trop soûlés."

This seemed good advice, because if their hosts were too drunk too soon they might get tired of the entertainment; and Sylvia proposed an adjournment to eat, though she had little enough appetite. As a matter of fact, the men wanted to drink vodka when supper was proposed, and not merely to drink it themselves, but to make Sylvia and the other girl keep them company glass by glass. In Sylvia's condition to drink vodka would have been to drink liquid fire, and she managed to plead thirst with such effect that the count benevolently ordered twenty-four bottles of champagne to be brought immediately for her to quench it. The other girl was full of admiration for Sylvia's strategy; if the worst came to the worst, they would have earned seventy-five francs each and could boast of a successful evening. Sylvia, however, wanted a hundred and fifty francs for herself, and invoking the little red devil she showed a way of breaking a bottle in half by filling it with hot water, saturating a string in methylated spirits, tying the string round the bottle, setting light to it, and afterward tapping the bottle gently with a knife until it broke. The count was delighted with this trick, but thought, as Sylvia hoped he would think, that the trick would be much better if practised on an unopened bottle of champagne. In this way twenty-six bottles were broken in childish rage by the count, because the trick only worked with the help of hot water. He was by now in a state of drunken obstinacy, and, being determined to show