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ment from the new ballet. "If Nordstrom had not seen me dance, we would never have made friends, and then you would never have met me."

"You forget Bruges, and Carnival, and you in your red dress, waving to me across the canal."

Lina burst out laughing.

"Now what is it?" he asked reproachfully.

"You're so sentimental! You're so sentimental! Listen, here's a tune af ter your own heart, only I play so badly, and you must forgive me. But listen."

And she began to play, humming beneath her breath, the love-song from the opera Mignon. It was dusk, and they had not yet lighted the candles, but glowing embers from the fire cast a dull gleam upon the bois de rose furniture and played strange tricks of light and shadow about the ivory of Lina's neck, and the jetty ringlets of her hair. And her dress, that was of stiff amber silk, dragged away from the purity of her young shoulders, reflected the firelight as though it were made of sunshine.

De Beauvais stole up behind her and caught her hands; the song from Mignon broke off in a crash and jumble of discords.

"Lina, my sweet, beautiful Lina, I love you so much! I have loved you since first I saw you laughing at your window in Bruges. You may tease me for being sentimental, if you like, but you know it's true."

A bell pealed at that moment, the bell of the front door. Lina swung round on the piano stool, pulling her hands away from her lover's eager grasp.

"You must go now, Pierre. That's Heinrich, my manager, with whom I have an appointment.

"But, Lina, you are impossible! I never see you! You can't work all the time—you'11 kill yourself! Oh, please have supper with me to-night, either here or anywhere you like, but I entreat you not to refuse me!

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