ot much in his habits; but still, what had been done to him
definite enough to afford matter for overt reproof? I had not uttered a
sound, and could not justly be deemed amenable to reprimand or penalty
for having permitted a slightly freer action than usual to the muscles
about my eyes and mouth.

The supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted with tepid water, was
brought in. In respectful consideration of the Professor's presence,
the rolls and glasses were allowed to stand instead of being
immediately handed round.

"Take your supper, ladies," said he, seeming to be occupied in making
marginal notes to his "Williams Shackspire." They took it. I also
accepted a roll and glass, but being now more than ever interested in
my work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched my
bread and sipped my beverage, the whole with easy _sang-froid_; with a
certain snugness of composure, indeed, scarcely in my habits, and
pleasantly novel to my feelings. It seemed as if the presence of a
nature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul absorbed all
feverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none but
such as were placid and harmonious.

He rose. "Will he go away without saying another word?" Yes; he turned
to the door.

No: he _re_-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take his
pencil-case, which had been left on the table.

He took it--shut the pencil in and out, broke its point against the
wood, re-cut and pocketed it, and . . . walked promptly up to me.

The girls and teachers, gathered round the other table, were talking
pretty freely: they always talked at meals; and, from the constant
habit of speaking fast and loud at such times, did not now subdue their
voices much.

M. Paul came and stood behind me. He asked at what I was working; and I
said I was making a watchguard.

He asked, "For whom?" And I answered, "For a gentleman--one of my
friends."

M. Paul stooped down and proceeded--as novel-writers say, and, as was
literally true in his case--to "hiss" into my ear some poignant words.

He said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one who could make
herself the most consummately unpleasant: I was she with whom it was
least possible to live on friendly terms. I had a "caractere
intraitable," and perverse to a miracle. How I managed it, or what
possessed me, he, for his part, did not know; but with whatever pacific
and amicable intentions a person accosted me--cra