reading his breviary, had spied me. One of
the waiters came flying through the glass-
door to fetch me in. If Monsieur would only
so far honour them! They would be so
desolated if he did not. It must be so triste—so
doleful for him to be wandering about in
that fashion. Then came another with
greater instance. And so with no decent
excuse ready, and unable to fetch up even
the most wretched shift, the Briton with all
his dignity had to suffer himself to be led in
half-resisting, half-complying, with more of
the aspect of the British sheep than of the
British lion.

The prettiest little room that could be
conceived. All the gift-flowers scenting it like a
garden. Such a chatter of tongues! Such
enjoyment; such pleasant faces; such courtly
airs and postures worthy of the Louis
Quatorze court. Lawyers were unfrocked, and
unlike lawyers. The houses of Tourlou and
Faquinet seemed on easy terms. Madame,
from her easy-chair, said, I did her too much
honour; but she would try her best to entertain
the stranger. Words very frigidly spoken.
Come, I said to myself, let me relax for this
one night; there can be no harm in that;
for this gentle, little woman means only kindness.

But alack! the wise resolution was formed
too late! I was among them, but not of
them. Had they all too readily taken up that
hint of mine let fall at dinner? These sharp-
minded French folk accept such intimation
readily enough. Prodigious respect came from
Madame—from everybody. I was, as it were,
grand seigneur. Nay, it seemed as though I
had brought in with me a certain chill and
restraint, which, heaven knows, I tried hard to
thaw and dissipate. Maixy more of Madame's
perfections I had to learn that night. By-
and-by she went over to the piano and
discoursed little French ballads in the most
delightful fashion; patois things acted in
the most perfect fashion. I had never
heard anything so pretty, I said to her in
warmth of admiration. She said I was very
good. I was too complaisant; did so much
honour, &c. &c. Every one seemed to delight
in it but that heavy exquisite with the
moustache, whom I have mentioned before.
Supercilious fellow! He lounged on the
sofa in a lazy insouciant mood.

That night in my room—the prettiest little
room in the world, be it recollected—I made
a wholesome resolution; namely, to have a
regular formal making up with Madame.
There was something pleasing in the notion:
perhaps tears from Madame. It is an old
story that, leaning towards quarrelling for
the sweet pleasure of making all things
straight again.

So, that next morning—it was a fine sunny
forgiving morning—I went forth to the
garden where I saw Madame out betimes
trimming her flowers, and here made
repentant acknowledgment of all my sins. I
had furnished myself with the choicest of
bouquets procured from neighbouring
horticulturists, and presented them humbly as a
peace-offering, which was graciously accepted.
The old smiles were returning, the old
winning manner was coming back.

"We are friends now," she said, putting
out her hand, " but we never were enemies."

"Nor ever shall be," I said.

"Who shall tell? " she said. Mon dieu,
you looked so wickedly at me yesterday, I
was quite frightened!"

"Did I? " I answered, quite aghast at my
own villany. " No, it cannot have been!"

"Indeed you did."

"'Twas not at you, then; it must have
been at old Tourlou." This was the signal
for commencement of an amicable dispute,
which completely restored the old harmony.
I said: " By the way, I have received letters
—business letters—this morning, which I
fear will hurry my departure. I must think
of setting out on to-morrow, or the day
after." There was no such pressing need of
despatch, but I thought I would see how
she took it. Was it possible—was that
a little tinge of colour creeping over her
cheek?

"Mon dieu! and must you really go?" she
said at length. " What a misfortune."

"I must, indeed," I said, " and, believe
me, with infinite regret—the happy hours I
have passed in this little retreat shall
never be forgotten by me; neither can I
forget——"

"O, I am so desolated at this piece of
news," she interrupted, "I had counted on
your staying with us longer. Do not go
yet."

I looked at her with a strange feeling of
interest. What could she mean? " Do you
really wish me to remain? " I said, taking
her hand.

"My faith, yes!" she answered. "If I
were to let you into a little secret I am sure
you would. Shall I tell him? Yes—no. I
cannot bring my mind to it! " and she turned
away her head. Was it to hide another of
those tell-tale blushes?

"Dear Madame," I said, "you must let me
into this little mystery."

"I cannot, Monsieur."

"You must—I—I will promise you to stay
if you do! " She turned round.

"Well, that makes a difference. So I
must tell you my secret. You must know,
then——"

Here came running from the house the
soubrette or waiting-woman. Madame was
wanted in the kitchen.

"You shall hear it another time," Madame
said, " perhaps not at all."

"Cruel one," I said, reproachfully, " and
your promise?"

"Well, if you must know, come to my
little boudoir at breakfast-time, and,
perhaps——"