. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. “I believe after all it’s coming out!” said Miss Stanley. .
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