in her friends than in her, he could not possibly be
insensible to the consideration shown for him in her drawing-room.
Madame de Netteville allowed herself plenty of jests with her intimates
as to the young reformer's social simplicity, his dreams, his optimisms.
But those intimates were the first to notice that as soon as he entered
the room those optimisms of his were adroitly respected. She had various
delicate contrivances for giving him the lead; she exercised a kind of
_surveillance_ over the topics introduced; or in conversation with him
she would play that most seductive part of the cynic shamed out of
cynicism by the neighbourhood of the enthusiast.

Presently she began to claim a practical interest in his Elgood Street
work. Her offers were made with a curious mixture of sympathy and
mockery. Elsmere could not take her seriously. But neither could he
refuse to accept her money, if she chose to spend it on a library for
Elgood Street, or to consult with her about the choice of books. This
whim of hers created a certain friendly bond between them which was not
present before. And on Elsmere's side it was strengthened when, one
evening, in a corner of her inner drawing-room, Madame de Netteville
suddenly, but very quietly, told him the story of her life--her English
youth, her elderly French husband, the death of her only child, and her
flight as a young widow to England during the war of 1870. She told the
story of the child, as it seemed to Elsmere, with a deliberate avoidance
of emotion, nay, even with a certain hardness. But it touched him
profoundly. And everything else that she said, though she professed no
great regret for her husband, or for the break-up of her French life,
and though everything was reticent and measured, deepened the impression
of a real forlornness behind all the outward brilliance and social
importance. He began to feel a deep and kindly pity for her, coupled
with an earnest wish that he could help her to make her life more
adequate and satisfying. And all this he showed in the look of his frank
gray eyes, in the cordial grasp of the hand with which he said good-bye
to her.

Madame de Netteville's gaze followed him out of the room--the tall
boyish figure, the nobly carried head. The riddle of her flushed cheek
and sparkling eye was hard to read. But there were one or two persons
living who could have read it, and who could have warned you that the
_true_ story of Eugenie de Nettevill