Lambert had appropriated. It was prettily and lightly decorated, the hangings and chair-covers being of chintz, bouquets of roses tied with blue ribbon on a cream ground, and had one large window opening on a balcony full of flowers, which overhung a garden belonging to a large hotel in a street behind. There were books and needle-work, a writing-table and a sewing-machine about, and it was evidently Miss Lambert's private sitting-room. A stout, elderly woman in black, with a lace cap and a large apron, who looked more than a servant and less than a lady, rose as they entered, and was about to leave the room, when Lambert exclaimed in his hearty manner and rather peculiar French, "How goes it, Madame Weber? I hope your cold is better; a summer cold is worse than any other, for it's out of season."

Madame thanked monsieur, reported herself nearly or quite well, and vanished.

"I thought you had left Paris, at least my father did," said Elsie Lambert, giving Glynn one hand, while the other held an open book—a shabby, well-thumbed book.

"I should not have left without calling to say good-bye, to thank you again for your delightful songs," returned Glynn.

She smiled. "Will you sit down, or shall we go into the salon, this is such a tiny place?"

"Oh, we are snug enough here. And how are you, my dear? you haven't said 'good-morning' to your old father yet."

"My old father!" leaning her head against him for an instant, with inexpressible loving grace; "why, he is younger than I am, Mr. Glynn. When I have been brooding over my book or work I always feel as if some bright, pleasant playfellow had come to rouse me when my father walks in."

"Thar!" said Lambert, looking over with infinite pride and a queer expressive nod and toss of the head to Glynn, as if to say, "What do you think of your old fighting, gaming, hand-to-mouth comrade now?" "It's not every old cuss that can find a nice young lady to say as much for him, hey?" he said aloud.

"I quite understand it," returned Glynn, smiling, his eyes full of tender admiration. What a curious puzzle the whole thing was. How had Lambert alias Merrick, or Merrick alias Lambert, found the funds to keep up this establishment, which, modest as it was, must cost six or seven hundred a year? Honestly, he hoped, though from certain dimly-remembered traits he feared the lively, boyish Lambert was not the most scrupulous of men. Still, regard for so sweet, so refined a daughter must, ought to keep him straight.

"What are you going to do with yourself, Elsie, this damp, drizzling afternoon? you can't go out."

"Oh yes I can; I was just asking Madame Weber if she felt well enough to come with me to the salon; one can find all weathers in the pictures."

"A good idea, faith. Will you come with us, Glynn? for I'll be your escort myself, Elsie. Just let me get into my coat and boots, and I'll be with you in a twinkling."

"Yes, do come, that will be delightful. And you too, Mr. Glynn?"

"With infinite pleasure."

"Then I'll make my toilette before you'd say Jack Robinson," cried Lambert, as he left the room.

"You are fond of reading, Miss Lambert?" asked Glynn.

"Yes, very fond; and this is such a delightful English book. I like it much better than French poetry."

"May I see?"

"Certainly," handing it to him.

"Ah, 'The Lady of the Lake,' that is a very old friend; I thought modern young ladies had left such childish productions far behind."

"Childish! what can you mean? Why, it is so clear and vivid; I almost feel the mountain air as I read; and that combat between Fitz-James and Roderick, only a man could have written that!"

"I must read it again," said Glynn, half to himself, as he turned over the pages; "I have not seen it since I was a boy."

"Then you read, too? that also is unlike my father's other friends."

"I am afraid your father's friends do not stand very high in your estimation; I earnestly hope I may find more favor."

"I think I shall like you,"—softly—gravely, and without a tinge of coquetry, looking at him while she spoke.

He could not have answered her lightly, even had he been inclined; there was something imposing in her straightforward simplicity, and he replied, in the same tone: "I hope you will try to like me. You have not read many English books perhaps?"

"Very few books of any kind, and those chiefly since I left school. It is a great delight; but I read very slowly, indeed I am slow about everything, not that I enjoy the less."

"I am sure you learned music quickly."

"I can always pick up airs, and even long pieces by ear, but I do not think I learned by note quickly."

"Tell me," asked Glynn, moved by a sudden impulse, "did you enjoy the races last Sunday at Auteuil? I should not imagine racing an amusement suited to you."

"But I was amused; the crowd and the brightness made a pleasant picture." Then with a sudden recollection, "But how do you know I was at the races; they were long ago, before I knew you?"

A strange thrill of triumph shivered through Glynn's veins at this implied admission that her acquaintance with him was an event to date from.

"I saw you there, and I feared you might have seen me, for I was with a man who gazed at you almost rudely, because you reminded him of some one, and I did not wish you to associate me with him in your mind."

"Was he a tall, haughty-looking man, very English, and rather distingué?"

"Yes."

"Then I did see him, but not with you; it was just before we came away. He walked up to the carriage, and looked into my face. I felt frightened. Why did he do it? Of whom did I remind him? some one he did not like, I am sure."

"That I cannot tell," said Glynn thoughtfully, while he remembered that Deering had no doubt returned to gaze once more at the face which had so fascinated him.

"Do you know the gentleman well? Is he—good, I mean kind, or hard and cruel? He filled me with a strange fear; but I did not mention it to my father, because he is so fond, so anxious about me."

"Now then, go put on your bonnet, my darlin'; the sun is trying to come out. We'll take a fiacre, and have a good look at the pictures," cried Lambert, breaking in on their discourse.

Elsie was soon ready, and a few hours of simple, pure, but thorough enjoyment ensued. Lambert candidly avowing his indifference to art generally, secured a comfortable seat, and produced a couple of newspapers from his pocket. To these he devoted his attention, telling his daughter he would await her pleasure.

So Glynn was practically alone with Elsie. He found a new experience in her genuine, though uncultured appreciation of the paintings, in the complete unaffected reality of her manner, the honesty of her crude opinions. Then when she found he had seen many galleries, and knew something of art, the interest with which she listened to him was flattering and amusing; not that she was ready to accept his dictum unquestioned, she tried most assertions by the test of her own common sense.

The restful charm of her gentle composure, while it enchanted her companion, conveyed an impression of latent strength which unconsciously piqued him into an irresistible desire to exert an influence, a disturbing influence over her. He was growing conscious that at the first sign of discomposure, the first fluttering hesitation in her look or voice, his firmness, prudence, good resolutions would go by the board. For the present, however, all was safe; he might as well enjoy himself, in another week he would probably be far away, and might never see his queer Californian comrade or his lovely daughter again. Never? Well, he was not so sure about that. Meantime the severest chaperon could not find cause to cavil at any of his words or looks; he was calmly agreeable, and put forth his best powers of conversation, his memories of art, of other lands, of all that could lay hold of