which she obviously excited in the two Frenchmen. His earlier enjoyment of the meal was a little clouded from the fact that he felt himself utterly outshone in the matter of general appearance. No tailor had ever suggested to him a coat so daring and yet so perfect as that which adorned the person of the Marquis de Sogrange. The deep violet of his tie was a shade unknown in Bond Street—inimitable—a true education in color. They had the bearing, too, these Frenchmen! He watched Monsieur de Founcelles bending over Violet, and he was suddenly conscious of a wholly new sensation. He did not recognize—could not even classify it. He only knew that it was not altogether pleasant, and that it set the warm blood tingling through his veins.
It was not until they were sitting out in the winter garden, taking their coffee and liqueurs, that the object of their meeting was referred to. Then Monsieur de Founcelles drew Violet a little away from the others, and the Marquis, with a meaning smile, took Peter Ruff’s arm and led him on one side. Monsieur de Founcelles wasted no words at all.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “Monsieur Ruff has doubtless told you that last night I made him the offer of a great position among us.”
She looked at him with twinkling eyes.
“Go on, please,” she said.
“I offered him a position of great dignity—of great responsibility,” Monsieur de Founcelles continued. “I cannot explain to you its exact nature, but it is in connection with the most wonderful organization of its sort which the world has ever known.”
“The ‘Double-Four,’” she murmured.
“Attached to the post is a princely salary and but one condition,” Monsieur de Founcelles said, watching the girl’s face. “The condition is that Mr. Ruff remains a bachelor.”
Violet nodded.
“Peter’s told me all this,” she remarked. “He wants me to give him up.”
Monsieur de Founcelles drew a little closer to his companion. There was a peculiar smile upon his lips.
“My dear young lady,” he said softly, “forgive me if I point out to you that with your appearance and gifts a marriage with our excellent friend is surely not the summit of your ambitions! Here in Paris, I promise you, here—we can do much better than that for you. You have not, perhaps, a dot? Good! That is our affair. Give up our friend here, and we deposit in any bank you like to name the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand francs!” Violet repeated, slowly.
Monsieur de Founcelles nodded.
“It is enough?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It is not enough,” she answered.
Monsieur de Founcelles raised his eyebrows.
“We do not bargain,” he said coldly, “and money is not the chief thing in the world. It is for you, then, to name a sum.”
“Monsieur de Founcelles,” she said, “can you tell me the amount of the national debt of France?”
“Somewhere about nine hundred million francs, I believe,” he answered.
She nodded.
“That is exactly my price,” she declared.
“For giving up Peter Ruff?” he gasped.
She looked at her employer thoughtfully.
“He doesn’t look worth it, does he?” she said, with a queer little smile. “I happen to care for him, though—that’s all.”
Monsieur de Founcelles shrugged his shoulders. He knew men and women, and for the present he accepted defeat. He sighed heavily.
“I congratulate our friend, and I envy him,” he said. “If ever you should change your mind, Mademoiselle—”
“It is our privilege, isn’t it?” she remarked, with a brilliant smile. “If I do, I shall certainly let you know.”
On the way home, Peter Ruff was genial—Miss Brown silent. He had escaped from a difficult position, and his sense of gratitude toward his companion was strong. He showed her many little attentions on the voyage which sometimes escaped him. From Dover, they had a carriage to themselves.
“Peter,” Miss Brown said, after he had made her comfortable, “when is it to be?”
“When is what to be?” he asked, puzzled.
“Our marriage,” she answered, looking at him for a moment in most bewildering fashion and then suddenly dropping her eyes.
Peter Ruff returned her gaze in blank amazement.
“What do you mean, Violet?” he exclaimed.
“Just what I say,” she answered, composedly. “When are we going to be married?”
Peter Ruff frowned.
“What nonsense!” he said. “We are not going to be married. You know that quite well.”
“Oh, no, I don’t!” she declared, smiling at him in a heavenly fashion. “At your request I have told Monsieur de Founcelles that we were engaged. Incidentally, I have refused two hundred and fifty thousand francs and, I believe, an admirer, for your sake. I declared that I was going to marry you, and I must keep my word.”
Peter Ruff began to feel giddy.
“Look here, Violet,” he said, “you know very well that we arranged all that between ourselves.”
“Arranged all that?” she repeated, with a little laugh. “Perhaps we did. You asked me to marry you, and you posed as my fiancee. You kept it up just as long as you—it suits me to keep it up a little longer.”
“Do you mean to say—do you seriously mean that you expect me to marry you?” he asked, aghast.
“I do,” she admitted. “I have meant you to for some time, Peter!”
She was very alluring, and Peter Ruff hesitated. She held out her hands and leaned towards him. Her muff fell to the floor. She had raised her veil, and a faint perfume of violets stole into the carriage. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes were saying unutterable things.
“You don’t want me to sue you, do you, Peter?” she murmured.
Peter Ruff sighed—and yielded.
WONDERFUL JOHN DORY
The woman who had been Peter Ruff’s first love had fallen upon evil days. Her prettiness was on the wane—powder and rouge, late hours, and excesses of many kinds, had played havoc
