She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. Louis the Fourteenth yet lived, and expectations were, therefore, indulged of assistance from France. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the younger, and more interesting couple.
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