that night he was roused by a tapping at his door. "jean bulmer, jean bulmer! i have bribed reinault. i have the keys. come, and i will set you free."

"free to do what?" said john bulmer.

"to escape—to flee to your foggy england," said the voice without,—"and to your hideous englishwomen."

"do you go with me?" said john bulmer.

"i do not." this was spoken from the turrets of decision.

"in that event," said john bulmer, "i shall return to my dreams, which i infinitely prefer to the realities of a hollow existence. and, besides, now one thinks of it, i have given my parole."

an infuriate voice came through the key-hole. "you are undoubtedly a bully," it stated. "i loathe you." followed silence.

presently the voice said, "because if you really loved her you were no better than she was, and so i hate you both."

"'beautiful as an angel, and headstrong as a devil,'" was john bulmer's meditation. afterward john bulmer turned over and went back to sleep.

for after all, as he reflected, he had given his parole.