The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. He wanted her named Mary. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. “It’s—private. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. "Go on first with the light," he said. I'll go with you.
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