it, and see Anne's home before she committed herself.
"She writes me," said Mrs. Ravenel, eyeing the invitation suspiciously, "that she has taken a house like a palace. I lived in a palace once in Venice. The walls were of marble, with moisture on them constantly, and there was but four feet of rug on a tiled floor forty feet square. When I asked for fire they brought me a china basket with three or four semi-hot coals in it, and placed it in the exact centre of the room where one was liable to trip over it. The experience cured me of 'dreaming to dwell in marble halls.' I want heat, electricity, and a large bath of my own."
According to his mother's wishes, Frank had written to Anne that business was bringing him to Paris, and that he would give himself the pleasure of calling upon her some time within the following fortnight. In the stately old house, which she had taken on the Boulevard Haussmann, Anne awaited Frank's coming with more emotion than she acknowledged to herself. She knew that he had arrived in Paris two days before, had seen that he was at the Grand Club, and the day previous had received from him a note asking permission
to call at four. He had been more than deliberate in his attentions, a deliberation to which she had become accustomed. It was, in fact, part of his charm. Often, in past years, he had hurt her so much by his coldness that his coming brought a keener pleasure than the presence of a more ardent suitor might have done, if he could with any exactness be termed a suitor at all.
Long before her ill-assorted marriage had been dissolved by the death of her husband, Anne Lennox's name had been connected with that of Francis Ravenel. But it was one of the few affairs of his life which had caused no scandal, one which other women had slurred over with a laugh.
"Anne's all right, you know," they explained, "and really Frank and she would have been very well suited to each other if they could have married. At worst nothing but a flirtation; and who, knowing her husband, can blame her?" These were the excuses framed for Mrs. Lennox by her many friends. The death of her husband had brought the general belief that a wedding between Frank and herself would naturally follow. Nearly four years had elapsed, however, and marriage between them seemed no nearer than it had ever done.
Frank's present visit to Paris, Anne Lennox knew, with some bitterness, was a business one. He had made that disappointingly plain to her in his letter. But as she awaited his coming in a white crêpe gown, which made her seem so fair and young, she hoped the words might be spoken which would bring to her the desired end.
With all the love of which her worldly heart was capable, she had loved this man for years, for his wealth, his family, even for his reputed successes with women, which would give added distinction to the charms of the woman whom he finally selected for a wife.
After he had been announced she rose to greet him, and stood watching him as he came slowly through the great hall, noticing the hangings as he came. It was a slight thing, but a woman in love knows the value of such signs.
"When did you come?" she asked.