A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a rich gown beneath. Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade of thought. Within one moment they would be round and artless like a child's, and long and cozening like a gypsy's. One hand raised her gown, undraping a little shoe, high-heeled, with its ribbons dangling, untied. So heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified to charm and command! Perhaps she had seen David coming, and had waited for his help there.

    Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but the shoe! - the naughty shoe! Alas! it would not remain tied. Ah! if monsieur would be so gracious!

    The poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then he would have fled from the danger of her presence, but the eyes grew long and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him. He leaned against the balustrade, clutching his bottle of sour wine.

    "You have been so good," she said, smiling. "Does monsieur, perhaps, live in the house?"

    "Yes, madame. I - I think so, madame."

    "Perhaps in the third story, then?"

    "No, madame; higher up."

    The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of impatience.

    "Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will forgive me? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he lodges."

    "Madame, do not say so. I live in the - "

    "No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But I cannot lose the interest I feel in this house and all that is in it. Once it was my home. Often I come here but to dream of those happy days again. Will you let that be my excuse?"

    "Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse," stammered the poet. "I live in the top floor - the small room where the stairs turn."

    "In the front room?" asked the lady, turning her head sidewise.

    "The rear, madame."

    The lady sighed, as if with relief.

    "I will detain you no longer then, monsieur," she said, employing the round and artless eye.