ld me that you were not poor, but rich--that you had not become
my father's secretary because such a situation was necessary, but--but
for quite another reason."

"Yes."

"And I learn immediately afterwards from Mr. Gayerson that you are
penniless, and must work for your living."

"Merely because Alfred Gayerson knew more than I did," I replied. "I
did not know that my father in the heat of a passing quarrel had made
such a will--or, indeed, could make it if he so desired. I was not
aware of this when I spoke to you--and, knowing it now, I must ask you
to consider my words unsaid. You may be sure that I shall not refer
to them again, even with the hope of making you merry."

She laughed suddenly.

"Oh," she said, "I find plenty to amuse me--thank you. You need not
give yourself the trouble. _D'ailleurs_," she paused and looked at me
with a quick and passing gravity, "that has never been your role,
Monsieur l'Anglais--you are not fitted for it."

She pulled a long face--such as mine, no doubt, appeared in her
eyes--and left me.

I had business that took me across the Seine during the morning, and
lunched at a club--so did not again see the ladies until later in the
day. The desire of speech with Alphonse Giraud on a matter connected
with his father's burial took me back to the Rue des Palmiers in the
afternoon, when I learnt from the servant that the Baron's son had
returned, and was, so far as he knew, still in the house. I went to
the drawing-room and there found Madame alone.

"I am seeking Monsieur Alphonse Giraud," I said.

"Whose good genius you are."

"Not that I am aware of, Madame."

"No," she said, slowly, "that is just it. In a crowded street the
strongest house does not know how many weaker buildings are leaning
against it. Alphonse Giraud is not a strong house. He will lean
against you if you permit it. So be warned."

"By my carelessness," I answered, "I have done Alphonse Giraud a great
injury--I have practically ruined him. Surely the least I can do is to
attempt to recover for him that which he has lost."

Madame de Clericy was of course engaged in needlework. I never saw her
fingers idle. It appeared that at this moment she had a difficult
stitch to execute.

"One never knows," she said, without looking up, "what is the least or
the most that men can do. We women look at things in a different
light, and therefore cannot say what is right or what is wrong; it is
better that men should