this."

"No doubt," said Turner; "but next time I take a cab."

We arrived at the Manor House in time for luncheon, and were received
by the ladies at the door. Lucille, I remember, looked grave, but it
appeared that the Vicomtesse was in good spirits.

"Then the news is true," she cried, before we had descended from our
high places.

"Yes, Madame, for a wonder good news is true," answered Turner, and he
stood bareheaded, after the manner of his adopted country, while he
shook hands.

On this occasion we all frankly spoke French, for to John Turner this
language was second nature. We had plenty to talk of during luncheon,
and learnt much from the Paris banker which had never appeared in the
newspapers. He had, indeed, passed through a trying ordeal, and that
with an imperturbable nerve and coolness of head. He made, however,
little of his own difficulties, and gave all his attention to Madame's
affairs. Whenever he made mention of my name I saw Lucille frown.

After luncheon we went to the garden, which extends from the grim old
house to the cliff-edge, and is protected on either side by a double
rank of Scotch firs, all twisted and gnarled by the winter winds--all
turning westward, with a queer effect as of raised shoulders and
shivering limbs.

Within the boundary we have always, however, succeeded in growing such
simple flowers as are indigenous to British soil--making a gay
appearance and filling the air with clean-smelling scents.

"Your garden," said Madame, touching my arm as we passed out of the
dining-room window, "always suggests to me the English character--not
much flower, but a quantity of tough wood."

Alphonse joined us, and embarked at once on the description of an
easterly gale such as are too common on this coast, but new to him and
grand enough in its onslaught. For the wind hurls itself unchecked
against the cliff and house after its career across the North Sea.

Lucille and John Turner had walked slowly away together down the
narrow path running from the house to the solid entrenchment of turf
that stands on the cliff edge, covered with such sparse grass and herb
as the sand and spray may nourish.

"It is pleasant," Lucille said, as they went from us, "to have some
one to talk French with."

She was without her hat or gloves, and I saw the sunlight gleaming on
her hair.

"You have Alphonse Giraud," said Turner, in his blunt way.

Lucille shrugged her shoulders.

"And Howard, from