ly
depressed, so absolutely in a state of suspended animation, that I
seemed to conform exactly to my aunt's ideas of what was desirable in me
as an attendant on her at these functions. I used to stand behind
chairs and talk, like a good young man, to the assorted _Peres_ and
_Abbes_ who were generally present.

And then I used to go home and get the atmospheres of these people. I
must have done it abominably badly, for the notes that brought
Polehampton's cheques were accompanied by the bravos of that gentleman
and the assurances that Miss Polehampton liked my work--liked it very
much.

I suppose I exhibited myself in the capacity of the man who knew--who
could let you into a thing or two. After all, anyone could write about
students' balls and the lakes in the Bois, but it took _someone_ to
write "with knowledge" of the interiors of the barred houses in the Rue
de l'Universite.

Then, too, I attended the more showy entertainments with my sister. I
had by now become so used to hearing her styled "your sister" that the
epithet had the quality of a name. She was "mademoiselle votre soeur,"
as she might have been Mlle. Patience or Hope, without having anything
of the named quality. What she did at the entertainments, the
charitable bazaars, the dismal dances, the impossibly bad concerts, I
have no idea. She must have had some purpose, for she did nothing
without. I myself descended into fulfilling the functions of a
rudimentarily developed chaperon--functions similar in importance to
those performed by the eyes of a mole. I had the maddest of accesses of
jealousy if she talked to a man--and _such_ men--or danced with one. And
then I was forever screwing my courage up and feeling it die away. We
used to drive about in a coupe, a thing that shut us inexorably
together, but which quite as inexorably destroyed all opportunities for
what one calls making love. In smooth streets its motion was too glib,
on the _pave_ it rattled too abominably. I wanted to make love to
her--oh, immensely, but I was never in the mood, or the opportunity was
never forthcoming. I used to have the wildest fits of irritation; not of
madness or of depression, but of simple wildness at the continual
recurrence of small obstacles. I couldn't read, couldn't bring myself to
it. I used to sit and look dazedly at the English newspapers--at any
newspaper but the _Hour_. De Mersch had, for the moment, disappeared.
There were troubles in his elective grand