Captain Stewart said something under his breath and turned abruptly away.  But an instant later he faced about once more, smiling.  He said, in a man-of-the-world manner, which sat rather oddly upon him: 

“Ah, well, we all have our little love-affairs.  I dare say this shady fellow has his.”  And for some obscure reason Ste. Marie found the speech peculiarly offensive.

In the drawing-room he had opportunity for no more than a word with Miss Benham, for Hartley, enraged over his previous ill success, cut in ahead of him and manoeuvred that young lady into a corner, where he sat before her, turning a square and determined back to the world.  Ste. Marie listlessly played bridge for a time, but his attention was not upon it, and he was glad when the others at the table settled their accounts and departed to look in at a dance somewhere.  After that he talked for a little with Marian de Saulnes, whom he liked and who made no secret of adoring him.  She complained loudly that he was in a vile temper, which was not true; he was only restless and distrait and wanted to be alone; and so, at last, he took his leave without waiting for Hartley.

Outside, in the street, he stood for a moment, hesitating, and an expectant fiacre drew up before the house, the cocher raising an interrogative whip.  In the end Ste. Marie shook his head and turned away on foot.  It was a still, sweet night of soft airs, and a moonless, starlit sky, and the man was very fond of walking in the dark.  From the Etoile he walked down the Champs-Elysees, but presently turned toward the river.  His eyes were upon the mellow stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto.  He found himself crossing the Pont des Invalides, and halted midway to rest and look.  He laid his arms upon the bridge’s parapet and turned his face outward.  Against it bore a little gentle breeze that smelled of the purifying water below and of the night and of green things growing.  Beneath him the river ran black as flowing ink, and across its troubled surface the many-colored lights of the many bridges glittered very beautifully, swirling arabesques of gold and crimson.  The noises of the city—­beat of hoofs upon wooden pavements, horn of train or motor-car, jingle of bell upon cab-horse—­came here faintly and as if from a great distance.  Above the dark trees of the Cours la Reine the sky glowed, softly golden, reflecting the million lights of Paris.

Ste. Marie closed his eyes, and against darkness he saw the beautiful head of Helen Benham, the clear-cut, exquisite modelling of feature and contour, the perfection of form and color.  Her eyes met his eyes, and they were very serene and calm and confident.  She smiled at him, and the new contours into which her face fell with the smile were more perfect than before.  He watched the turn of her head, and the grace of the movement was the uttermost effortless grace one dreams that a queen should have.  The heart of Ste. Marie quickened in him, and he would have gone down upon his knees.