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different colour it lent to his thoughts. Antoine Ste. Croix of the Charbonnels’ veranda was not quite the Tony of every day, but another person, rather more tender and much courtlier.

By and by he offered to take Liane out in his boat, The Dream, and no one objected. Liane was frankly delighted. They went picnicking; it was a heavenly day and they were very happy. Liane talked more than usual, and Tony noted lazily how red her curving mouth was. Her voice was pretty too, very liquid and soft. He spoke less than was his custom, it was so pleasant to listen to her. They sat in the shade of a rock, their bare feet half buried in the warm yellow sand. Liane talked on, her chin raised, effortless and unceasing; Tony watched her through half-closed lids.

“I never knew what people meant by ‘bubbling’ before,” he thought. “Her voice comes out just like water from a spring in the hills.”

He hardly knew what she was saying; suddenly she turned to him. “Why do you watch me so, hein?” she said, like a petulant baby, and put her hands over his eyes.

Tony put up his right hand and caught both of hers in it.

“Why shouldn’t I watch you, p’tite sœur?” he asked.

“Aie! Let my hands go—you are so large, Toni—brother———”

“Silly little hands—about as big as a moderate-sized butterfly. Don’t they make mine look like—like rhinoceroses?”

Liane laughed softly, and let her hands lie still.

“I do love your rhinoceroses, Tony,” she said. “So hard and scarred and rough———”

“I don’t. Workman’s hands, all gnarled out of shape. Well, I don’t want a manicured white hand, like a lady, but I hate these.”

“Ah—oh! The poor hands———”