"Cette fille de marbre! Make haste, can't you, and then send for some more coffee."
A first night. As always, strange unknown people hastened about obscure business of their own, and the stone passages rang with their hurried tread.
"Is there an earthquake?" Lina asked peevishly.
"No, Madame, I am fairly certain that there isn't."
A knock at the door and Kessel came in, very splendid, over-dressed, a gardenia in his buttonhole.
"Ca va, hein?"
She made no reply, nor did he expect one.
"The Snow Bird, Lina! How they're longing for it."
"The brilliantine, Marie, for my hair ... oh, more than that, far more . . . that's better. Listen, Kessel, I want to teil you something."
"What has happened now, mon amie?"
"Oh, nothing has happened. It's only something that I did this afternoon. I want to teil some one about it."
"Yes?" he was politely attentive.
"I dismissed my carriage."
"I sent for a cab. I had a strange fancy,—to see my old home. To return there as I left, in a cab. I drove out to Kennington. I asked for Mott Street. Nobody knew anything about it. But I remembered, and I directed the driver. We drove there."
"Well? But this is very romantic!"
"Oh, no." She was somber. "Wait until I've finished. We drove there, and there was no Mott Street. Nothing, nothing. All the houses have been pulled down, to make way for a railroad. It made me feel that I had dreamed my childhood. I have never been there since, and now it's all gone. In a way I was glad, for it was not pretty, Mott Street. But somehow I feit exceedingly melancholy."
"Ah, now, listen to me before you start being absurd,"