The Argosy — page 180: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Divided. 165 “There is that Yvonne Hévin. Now, why did not Raoul marry her? She adores him. And, at least, she is a Kernéwote!” CHAPTER V, YVONNE, **So you have come back, Raoul, and brought her with you? Had she grown tired of Paris already ? ” Raoul started, a little surprised at hearing himself addressed by a woman’s voice at that hour and in that place. But when he saw the elf-like little figure by his side, he only laughed indulgently, and held out his hand. It was Yvonne Hévin; and nothing that Yvonne did ever excited surprise. She was one of those privileged people to whom ordinary rules do not apply, thanks to ess utter indifference to the opinion of the world at large. * Well, little witch?” he said. ‘* What are you doing out here at a time when I am certain Mademoiselle Mathilde expects you to be safely in bed? But you areright. You and I are Bretons. We are not afraid of a little night dew.” ‘You and I—no,” she answered. Then after a suggestive pause: * Madame is not with you.” ‘Denise is tired. We had a detestably long journey,” said Raoul, rather coldly, annoyed by a tone of malicious contempt in the girl’s voice. ‘The homeward journey with one we love is never long,” said Yvonne slowly, fixing her great, searching eyes on his face. ‘It is the journey to strange places, to live amongst strangers, that is long and wearisome as eternity.” “* How can you tell? You have never been farther than Quimper, or perhaps to the Pardon at Pont Aven.” ‘IT have been as far as you have—perhaps farther,” she said with a mocking laugh. ‘‘ We do not always bring back treasures after our journeys, do we? At the best they are only roses covered thickly with thorns.” She was a strange, interesting little figure, as she stood before him in the moonlight ; small and lithe as a fay, with long, dark eyes, deeply set under straight black brows and masses of dusky hair. It was a true Breton type of face, serious almost to morose- ness. But she had a curious, weird beauty of her own, and a grace of movement that, in spite of her picturesque peasant dress, showed her to be a lady by birth. It was only under daily protest from her strait-laced aunt that she was suffered to run wild in a costume that was so entirely opposed to Mademoiselle Mathilde’s notions of the fitness of things. The only argument that CORNICLIOO ss) (SO) am -, — pg am i a ee ae id . maga a