There are more callers and nothing is ready....

Ah," she cried, "it is Maud!"-- then, with surprise, "and her husband!" Indeed, the folding doors of the hall opened to admit Maud Gorka, a robust British beauty, radiant with happiness, attired in a gown of black crepe de Chine with orange ribbons, which set off to advantage her fresh color.

Behind her came Boleslas.

But he was no longer the traveller who, thirty-six hours before, had arrived at the Place de la Trinite-des-Monts, mad with anxiety, wild with jealousy, soiled by the dust of travel, his hair disordered, his hands and face dirty.

It was, though somewhat thinner, the elegant Gorka whom Dorsenne had known--tall, slender, and perfumed, in full dress, a bouquet in his buttonhole, his lips smiling.