mending
a net.

Philip knocked and stepped inside. When Mattresse Aimable saw who it was
she was so startled that she dropped her work, and made vague clutches
to recover it. Stooping, however, was a great effort for her. Philip
instantly stepped forward and picked up the net. Politely handing it to
her, he said:

"Ah, Maitresse Aimable, it is as if you had never stirred all these
years!" Then turning to her husband "I have come looking for a good
pilot, Jean." Mattresse Aimable had at first flushed to a purple, had
afterwards gone pale, then recovered herself, and now returned Philip's
look with a downright steadiness. Like Jean, she knew well enough he had
not come for a pilot--that was not the business of a Prince Admiral.

She did not even rise. Philip might be whatever the world chose to call
him, but her house was her own, and he had come uninvited, and he was
unwelcome.

She kept her seat, but her fat head inclined once in greeting, and she
waited for him to speak again. She knew why he had come; and somehow the
steady look in these slow, brown eyes, and the blinking glance behind
Jean's brass-rimmed spectacles, disconcerted Philip. Here were people
who knew the truth about him, knew the sort of man he really was. These
poor folk who had had nothing of the world but what they earned, they
would never hang on any prince's favours.

He read the situation rightly. The penalties of his life were teaching
him a discernment which could never have come to him through good
fortune alone. Having at last discovered his real self a little, he was
in the way of knowing others.

"May I shut the door?" he asked quietly. Jean nodded. Closing it he
turned to them again. "Since my return I have heard naught concerning
Mademoiselle Landresse," he said. "I want to ask you about her now. Does
she still live in the Place du Vier Prison?"

Both Jean and Aimable shook their heads. They had spoken no word since
his entrance.

"She--she is not dead?" he asked. They shook their heads again.

"Her grandfather"--he paused--"is he living?" Once more they shook their
heads in negation. "Where is mademoiselle?" he asked, sick at heart.

Jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. "Where does she
live?" urged Philip. Still there was no motion, no reply. "You might
as well tell me." His tone was half pleading, half angry--little like a
sovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. "You must know I shall find
out from some one