“Marie, monsieur,” murmured the enchanting young girl, shy, her head drooping, her hands quivering at her bosom. Marcia’s,eyes flamed with contempt for this passive acceptance of the vilest shame that could befall a girl. She would have Marie discharged without a reference, once she was back in New York.

And, conscious of the fact that the stranger was neglecting her, who was so much lovelier than Marie could ever be, she coughed lightly and, languidly putting her right gloved hand to the side of her raven head-a trick which had never before failed to win admiring gazes from male onlookers, said, “Pardon me, but you have not answered me, Mr. George. I should like to know whether you intend to take me back to New York.”

He raised his head, gazed at her steadily and through the mask she saw cold, appraising eyes and shuddered, despite herself, at the intent and impassive hint of those male orbs.

Then he remarked, “Certainly not till I have enjoyed myself Marie, come over here to the divan with me. I want to get better acquainted with you, ma toute belle et charmante poupde!”

Marie quivered and, her eyes still downcast, moved with delicious undulating step to the divan, where she seated herself, her hands folded in her lap. The stranger approached her and, sitting beside her, encircled her waist with his left arm, his right hand imprisoning hers in a gentle caress.

Marcia’s eyes widened with indignation at this disdain for her svelte and dazzlingly enhanced charms, for the total lack of concern which this man displayed about her prestige and importance in the social scheme of the metropolis of which she was certainly one of the chief luminaries.

She tapped her pump-shod foot in vexation.

“Kindly do me the honor of listening to me, she exclaimed, her face revealing a haughty and angered expression.