leaving the Ansonia banquet at about nine o'clock in the singular manner noted by the big doorkeeper, Kittredge, in accordance with his promise to Alice, had driven directly to the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, and at twenty minutes past nine by the clock in the Tavern of the Three Wise Men he had drawn up at the house where the Bonnetons lived. Five minutes later the young man was seated in the sacristan's little salon assuring Alice that he didn't mind the rain, that the banquet was a bore, anyhow, and that he hoped she was now going to prove herself a sensible and reasonable little girl.
Alice welcomed her lover eagerly. She had been anxious about him, she did not know why, and when the storm came she had been more anxious. But now she was reassured and—and happy. Her mantling color, her heaving bosom, and the fond, wistful lights in her dark eyes told how very happy she was. And how proud! After all he trusted her, it must be so! he had left his friends, left this fine banquet and, in spite of the pain she had given him, in spite of the bad night, he had come to her here in her humble home.
And it would have straightway been the love scene all over again, for Alice had never seemed so adorable, but for the sudden and ominous entrance of Mother Bonneton. She eyed the visitor with frank unfriendliness and, without mincing her words, proceeded to tell him certain things, notably that his attentions to Alice must cease and that his visits here would henceforth be unwelcome.
In vain the poor girl protested against this breach of hospitality. Mother Bonneton held her ground grimly, declaring that she had a duty to perform and would perform it.
"What duty?" asked the American.
"A duty to M. Groener."
At this name Alice started apprehensively. Kittredge knew that she had a cousin named Groener, a wood carver who lived in Belgium, and who came to Paris occasionally to see her and to get orders for his work. On one occasion he had met this cousin and had judged him a well-meaning but rather stupid fellow who need not be seriously considered in his efforts to win Alice.
"Do you mean that M. Groener does not approve of me?" pursued Kittredge.
"M. Groener knows nothing about you," answered Mother Bonneton, "except that you have been hanging around this foolish girl. But he understands his responsibility as the only relation she has in the world and he knows she will respect his wishes as the one who has paid her board, more or less, for five years."
"Well?"
"Well, the last time M. Groener was here, that's about a month ago, he asked me and my husband to make inquiries about you, and see what we could find out."
"It's abominable!" exclaimed Alice.
"Abominable? Why is it abominable? Your cousin wants to know if this young man is a proper person for you to have as a friend."
"I can decide that for myself," flashed the girl.
"Oh, can you? Ha, ha! How wise we are!"
"And—er—you have made inquiries about me?" resumed Kittredge with a strangely anxious look.
Mother Bonneton half closed her eyes and threw out her thick lips in an ugly leer. "I should say we have! And found out things—well, just a few!"
"What things?"
"We have found out, my pretty sir, that you lived for months last year by gambling. I suppose you will deny it?"
"No," answered Kittredge in a low tone, "it's true."
"Ah! We found out also that the money you made by gambling you spent with a brazen creature who——"
"Stop!" interrupted the American, and turning to the girl he said: "Alice, I didn't mean to go into these details, I didn't see the need of it, but——"
"I don't want to know the details," she interrupted. "I know you, Lloyd, that is enough."
She looked him in the eyes trustingly and he blinked a little.
"Plucky!" he murmured. "They're trying to queer me and maybe they will, but I'm not going to lie about it. Listen. I came to Paris a year ago on account of a certain person. I thought I loved her and—I made a fool of myself. I gave up a good position in New York and—after I had been here a while I went broke. So I gambled. It's pretty bad—I don't defend myself, only there's one thing I want you to know. This person was not a low woman, she was a lady."
"Huh!" grunted Mother Bonneton. "A lady! The kind of a lady who dines alone with gay young gentlemen in private rooms! Aha, we have the facts!"
The young man's eyes kindled. "No matter where she dined, I say she was a lady, and the proof of it is I—I wanted her to get a divorce and—and marry me."
"Oh!" winced Alice.
"You see what he is," triumphed the sacristan's wife, "running after a married woman."
But Kittredge went on doggedly: "You've got to hear the rest now. One day something happened that—that made me realize what an idiot I had been. When I say this person was a lady I'm not denying that she raised the devil with me. She did that good and plenty, so at last I decided to break away and I did. It wasn't exactly a path of roses for me those weeks, but I stuck to it, because—because I had some one to help me," he paused and looked tenderly at Alice, "and—well, I cut the whole thing out, gambling and all. That was six months ago."
"And the lady?" sneered Mother Bonneton. "Do you mean to tell us you haven't had anything to do with her for six months?"
"I haven't even seen her," he declared, "for more than six months."
"A likely story! Besides, what we know is enough. I shall write M. Groener to-night and tell him the facts. Meantime—" She rose and pointed to the door.
Alice and Kittredge rose also, the one indignant and aggrieved at this wanton affront to her lover, the other gloomily resigned to what seemed to be his fate.
"Well," said he, facing Alice with a discouraged gesture, "things are against us. I'm grateful to you for believing in me and I—I'd like to know why you turned me down this afternoon. But I probably never shall. I—I'll be going now."
He was actually moving toward the door, and she, almost fainting with emotion, was rallying her strength for a last appeal when the bell in the hall tinkled sharply. Mother Bonneton answered the call and returned a moment later followed by the doorkeeper from below, a cheery little woman who bustled in carrying a note.
"It's for the gentleman," she explained, "from a lady waiting in a carriage. It's very important." With this she delivered a note to Kittredge and added in an exultant whisper to the sacristan's wife that the lady had given her a franc for her trouble.
"A lady waiting in a carriage!" chuckled Mother Bonneton. "What kind of a lady?"
"Oh, very swell," replied the doorkeeper mysteriously "Grande toilette, bare shoulders, and no hat. I should think she'd take cold."
"Poor thing!" jeered the other. And then to Kittredge: "I suppose this is another one you haven't seen for six months."
Kittredge stood as if in a daze staring at the note. He read it, then read it again, then he crumpled it in his hand, muttering: "O God!" And his face was white.
"Good-by!" he said to Alice in extreme agitation. "I don't know what you think of this, I can't stop to explain, I—I must go at once!" And taking up his hat and cane he started away.
"But you'll come back?" cried the girl.
"No, no! This is the end!"
She went to him swiftly and laid a hand on his arm. "Lloyd, you must come back. You must come back to-night. It's the last thing I'll ever ask you. You need never see me again but—you must come back to-night."
She stood transformed as she spoke, not pleading but commanding and beautiful beyond words.
"It may be very late," he stammered.