org. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. ’ ‘That was hardly the impression I got,’ Gerald murmured, remembering Melusine’s attitude to Leonardo. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. I—well, I lost my temper. . It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder. .
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