AT five o’clock that afternoon, Dorofée Went into her blue and white ro0m—to find Michael standing there, before the little table. “Where under heaven have you been?” he demanded, set- ting something down quickly.

“I have been to confess,” said Dorofée with her angelic smile. “I went into the arcades to do some shopping-—a little present for dear Paula, she must be so depressed !—-and then to lunch at an Arab place, and then——to confess. And what are you doing, Michael dear? What have you and Paula done all day?” Dorofée had hung up the forget-me-not hat and was standing opposite the little table. Two packets lay upon it—one had been spilled a little. Dorofée’s eyes were, quite evidently, upon them.

“Nothing,” returned Michael darkly, watching her; “why should you think I’d been doing any- thing?”

“Why, for no particular reason,” his wife laughed softly, “but that you generally do. I