The Son of Clemenceau

rcised over him, he dared not avow it, such respect did she inspire, and on her recovering from her fleeting emotion, he let her resume her way without a word to detain her.

She had not reached the first plank of the bridge before he suddenly remembered the officer, like himself, in ambush; and in the same manner as love--if that were love--had clutched his heart with the swiftness of an eagle seizing its quarry, another sentiment, as fierce and overpowering, jealousy, stung him to the quick.

As he glanced--but he had not taken his eyes off her, not even to look if the military officer were still at his post--she had swept her worsted wrapper round to set her foot on the first board of the bridge; and he caught a glimpse, delightful and bewildering, of a foot, long but slim and delicately modeled, and of a faultless ankle, in a vermilion silk stocking and low-cut cordovan leather slipper--as theatrical as the rest of her attire. Something innately aesthetical in the student, which made him adore the exq