y on the table, but before I had taken them up the
rustle of a woman's dress in a gallery drew my attention elsewhere.

It was Madame, who came in bearing a small tray, whereon stood wine
and biscuits.

"You are tired out," she said. "You had no refreshment at the
Tuileries. You must drink this glass of wine."

"Thank you, Madame," I answered, and turned to my letters, among which
were a couple of telegrams. But she laid her quiet hand upon them and
pointed with the other to the glass that she had filled. She watched
me drink the strong wine, which was, indeed, almost a cordial, then
took up the letters in her hands.

"My poor friend," she said, "there is bad news for you here. You must
be prepared."

Handing me the letters, she went to the door, but did not quit the
room. She merely stood there with her back turned to me, exhibiting a
strange, silent patience while I slowly opened the letters and read
that my father and I had quarrelled for the last time.

It was I who moved first and broke the silence of that old house. The
daylight was glimmering through the closed jalousies, making stripes
of light upon the ceiling.

"Madame," I said, "I must go home--to England--by the early train,
this morning! May I ask you to explain to Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Yes," she answered, turning and facing me. "Your coffee will be ready
at seven o'clock. And none of us will come downstairs until after your
departure. At such times a man is better alone--is it not so? For a
woman it is different."

I extinguished the useless lamp, and we passed round the gallery
together. At the door of my bedroom she stopped, and turning, laid her
hand--as light as a child's--upon my arm.

"What will you, my poor friend?" she said, with a queer little smile.
"_C'est la vie._"

It is not my intention to dwell at length upon my journey to England
and all that awaited me there. There are times in his life when--as
Madame de Clericy said, with her wise smile--a man is better alone.
And are there not occasions when the most eloquent of us is best
dumb?

I had for travelling companion on the bright autumn morning when I
quitted Paris my father's friend, John Turner--called suddenly to
England on matters of business. He gave a grunt when he saw me in the
Northern station.

"Better have taken my advice," he said, "to go home and make it up
with your father, rather than stay here to run after that girl with
the pretty hair--at your time of life