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of Bruges, he at the same time appreciated to the full his new life in that very different world in which he had previously been accustomed to exist.

"And which must inevitably alter the value of people as well as things. But you, my dear, have the unfortunate habit of inexplicably losing interest in your most intimate friends. When you do that, you simply cast them aside. You forget their whole existence. You would never, for instance, have thought of inviting those three men to the performance to-night. You would have been too careless to think of their pleasure, simply because you have not seen them for several months."

"We seem to be exactly the same," Lina told him scornfully.

"Let us not argue! For the love of Heaven let us not argue! Really, when one is tired one obtains little enough sympathy from you!"

"What about me? I am nearly always tired."

"Because you persistently overwork yourself," Rosing told her irritably.

"You taught me to do that in the first place," Lina reminded him.

"Lina, I entreat you!"

Her delicate profile, framed in the yellow tulle of her new Parisian bonnet, reproached him for some moments with its very aloofness, its air of withdrawal from this displeasing contact enforced by the motion of the rocking carriage; presently, as usual, he said, impulsively:

"My dear, I am a quarrelsome old man and you are very tired . . . and to-night you were exquisite . . . give me your hand."

It was cold, her hand, and smaller than a child's. She asked wistfully:

"Was I really good to-night?"