“That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. "It won't do to betray the officer," he muttered. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Now let us forget it. ’ He became aware of his friend’s face before him. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last.
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