"As we reached the Place Verte and turned into the court of the hotel,
the sound of the midnight bells swept over the city, and a horse-car
jingled slowly by on its last trip to the railroad station.

"We passed the fountain, bubbling and splashing in the moonlit court,
and, crossing the square, entered the southern wing of the hotel. At
the foot of the stairway she leaned for an instant against the
banisters.

"'I am afraid we have walked too fast,' I said.

"She turned to me coldly. 'No--conventionalities must be observed. You
were quite right in escaping as soon as possible.'

"'But,' I protested, 'I assure you--'

"She gave a little movement of impatience. 'Don't,' she said, 'you
tire me--conventionalities tire me. Be satisfied--nobody has seen
you.'

"'You are cruel,' I said, in a low voice--'what do you think I care
for conventionalities?'

"'You care everything--you care what people think, and you try to do
what they say is good form. You never did such an original thing in
your life as you have just done.'

"'You read my thoughts,' I exclaimed, bitterly. 'It is not fair--'

"'Fair or not, I know what you consider me--ill-bred, common, pleased
with any sort of attention. Oh! why should I waste one word--one
thought on you?' "'Miss Wyeth--' I began, but she interrupted me.