brought to Ruth Lady Agnes' farewell and offer of assistance at any time. Then, saluting, he said good-bye and they drove off.
Their car was keeping along the Quai-d'Orsay at first with the Seine glinting below on the right. They passed a bridge.
"Pont de Solférino," Hubert said.
They turned across the next bridge—"Pont de la Concorde!"
That brought to Ruth's right the Garden of the Tuileries! They were in the Place de la Concorde; they turned into the Champs-Elysées! It was little more than a vague wideness of speeding shadows; but Ruth's blood was warm and racing. Hubert spoke to her, and when she replied she knew that if he had questioned before whether she had been previously in Paris he could not wonder now. But he spoke to her as if she had, calling names of the places quietly to Milicent rather than to her.
The car swerved into the Place de l'Etoile.
"The Arc-de-Triomphe!" Hubert cried. Ruth bent and saw its looming bulk; they were lipon the Avenue Kléber now and the car soon was halting.
A single light burned in the hallway of a building of apartments handsomer than any Ruth ever had seen; a door upon a second floor opened and an American man and woman welcomed "Cynthia Gail" as Ruth had never been welcomed anywhere in her life. These hospitable people—they were Aunt Emilie's cousins, the Mayhews—welcomed Hubert, too, of course, and Milicent.
Ruth lay that night in a beautiful bed of gold and blue—the most grateful, the most excited, the most humble
