gold frames, and the fleecy carpet has shed its shrill colors; its striking bouquets have taken the tone of September foliage. For many years past the huge alabaster vases have filled out the four corners of the vast room, the walls have been hung in the same Cordovan leather, the round rosewood table has held the center of the room, the ornamental clock with a vibrating and silvery tone has struck the hours from its position between the ten-branched bronze candelabras. But these old things have an air of distinction about them; they are relics of the penates. And the antimacassars and tidies, examples of Madame Daelmans' diligent crochetting, hang upon the dull velour in the severe and charming folds of altar-cloths.
It was to Daelmans-Deynze that William Dobouziez presented himself on the morrow of Freddy Béjard's political dinner.
The two men, comrades at college, had always highly esteemed each other, and had seen each other frequently for many years; it was the too apparent luxury, the flashy style of living, and especially the bustling, cosmopolitan connections of the manufacturer which had alienated Monsieur Daelmans from a colleague whose solid knowledge, application and probity he had deeply appreciated. At one time, indeed, they had even seriously thought of going into partnership. Daelmans had intended to invest his capital in the factory. But that had been at the time of Dobouziez's greatest prosperity, and he had preferred to continue as sole proprietor of the business. Today he came to humbly propose that the merchant reconsider the proposition.
Daelmans-Deynze had long known that the factory was in jeopardy, he was no less ignorant of the sacri-
