Upon Marguerite Laurier the presence of Julio flashed like a ray of sunlight in the tiresome salon of Lacour.  She was dancing the fad of the hour and frequenting the tango teas where reigned the adored Desnoyers.  And to think that she was being entertained with this celebrated and interesting man that the other women were raving about! . . .  In order that he might not take her for a mere middle-class woman like the other guests at the senator’s party, she spoke of her modistes, all from the rue de la Paix, declaring gravely that no woman who had any self-respect could possibly walk through the streets wearing a gown costing less than eight hundred francs, and that the hat of a thousand francs—­but a few years ago, an astonishing novelty—­was nowadays a very ordinary affair.

This acquaintanceship made the “little Laurier,” as her friends called her notwithstanding her tallness, much sought by the master of the dance, in spite of the looks of wrath and envy hurled at her by the others.  What a triumph for the wife of a simple engineer who was used to going everywhere in her mother’s automobile! . . .  Julio at first had supposed her like all the others who were languishing in his arms, following the rhythmic complications of the dance, but he soon found that she was very different.  Her coquetry after the first confidential words, but increased his admiration.  He really had never before been thrown with a woman of her class.  Those of his first social period were the habituees of the night restaurants paid for their witchery.  Now Glory was tossing into his arms ladies of high position but with an unconfessable past, anxious for novelties although exceedingly mature.  This middle class woman who would advance so confidently toward him and then retreat with such capricious outbursts of modesty, was a new type for him.

The tango salons soon began to suffer a great loss.  Desnoyers was permitting himself to be seen there with less frequency, handing Glory over to the professionals.  Sometimes entire weeks slipped by without the five-to-seven devotees being able to admire his black locks and his tiny patent leathers twinkling under the lights in time with his graceful movements.

Marguerite was also avoiding these places.  The meetings of the two were taking place in accordance with what she had read in the love stories of Paris.  She was going in search of Julio, fearing to be recognized, tremulous with emotion, selecting her most inconspicuous suit, and covering her face with a close veil—­“the veil of adultery,” as her friends called it.  They had their trysts in the least-frequented squares of the district, frequently changing the places, like timid birds that at the slightest disturbance fly to perch a little further away.  Sometimes they would meet in the Buttes Chaumont, at others they preferred the gardens on the left bank of the Seine, the Luxembourg, and even the distant Parc de Montsouris.  She was always in tremors of terror lest her husband