anger I ran my eye down the account, and pointed to an item of five francs for brandy.

"Supplied this morning," he explained, "to monsieur's order. Five francs—yes, monsieur would find it quite correct."

"I required only a small glass," I said. "It is an imposition."

He trusted not; such an accusation had never been brought against him. Would monsieur be kind enough to produce the decanter? A proper deduction would be made if only one small glass had been taken.

"Produce the decanter! Certainly I will."

I called to Barbara to give me the decanter, and, her white arm bared to the shoulder, she handed it out to me. It was empty. I blushed from shame.

"Does monsieur find the account correct?"

"It is correct. Here is your money."

He receipted the bill and departed with polite bows and more deprecatory waving of his hands. As I sat with my closed eyes covered by my hand, Barbara touched my shoulder. I looked up into her smiling face.

"Have I made myself beautiful, dear?"

Most assuredly she would have been so in other men's eyes, for she was eminently attractive, but she was not in mine. Her beautiful outside served only to accentuate what was corrupt within.

"Why do you not answer? Are you not proud of your wife?"

Proud of her? Great God! Proud of a woman who had brought this shame upon me, and who, but an hour ago, was as degraded a spectacle as imagination could compass.

"Don't get sulky again," she said, and as I still did not speak, she asked vehemently, "What is the matter now?"

"Simply that we are turned out of the hotel," I replied.

"Is that all? The insolent ruffians! It is a thousand pities we ever came here. But why get sulky over it? Paris is crammed with hotels, and they will only be too glad to take our money."

"It is not that, Barbara. I wish to know if you drank all the brandy in the decanter."

"All? It wasn't more than a thimbleful. And see what good it did me."

"Did you finish it before you promised never to touch spirits again?"

"What a tragedy voice, and what a tragedy face! Of course I did. Do you think I would be so dishonorable as to break a promise I gave you—you, of all, men? That isn't showing much confidence in me."

"You will keep that promise faithfully, Barbara?"

"I should be ashamed to look you in the face if I did not mean to keep it faithfully. You will never find me doing anything underhanded or behind your back, John."

I rallied at this. My happiness was lost, but there was a hope that our shame would not be revealed to the world. As for what had occurred in this hotel, once we were gone it would soon be forgotten. The swiftly turning kaleidoscope of life in Paris is too absorbing in its changes to allow the inhabitants to dwell long upon one picture, especially on a picture the principle figures in which were persons so insignificant as ourselves.

"Not a sou," cried Barbara, snapping her fingers in the faces of the servants who swarmed about us when we were seated in the carriage; "not one sou, you greedy beggars!" We drove out of the courtyard, and Barbara, turning to me, said in her sweetest tone, "I hope you will be very good to me, John, for you see how weak I am. Oh, what I have gone through since you put the wedding ring on my finger! The dear wedding ring!" She put it to her lips and then to mine. "I do nothing but kiss it when I am alone. It means so much to both of us—love, faithfulness, truth, trust in one another. All our troubles are over now, are they not, love? And we are really commencing our honeymoon."