nto history, my dear Howard, and tell me what the
end of a woman's government has always been."

It was the first time that my old patron had named politics in my
hearing, or acknowledged their bearing upon the condition of private
persons in France. His father had been of the emigration. He himself
had been born in exile. The family prestige was but a ghost of its
former self--and I had hitherto treated the subject as a sore one and
beyond my province.

The Vicomte had sat down at my table. As for me, I was already on the
broad window seat, looking down into the garden. Lucille was there
upbraiding a gardener. I could see the nature of their conversation
from the girl's face. She was probably wanting something out of
season. Women often do. The man was deprecatory, and pointed
contemptuously towards the heavens with a rake. There was a long
silence in the room which was called my study.

"I think, mon ami," said my companion at length, "that there is
another reason."

"Yes," answered I, bluntly, "there is."

I did not look round, but continued to watch Lucille in the garden.
The Vicomte sat in silence--waiting, no doubt, for a further
explanation. Failing to get this, he said, rather testily as I
thought:

"Is the reason in the garden, my friend, that your eyes are fixed
there?"

"Yes, it is. It is scolding the gardener. And I think I am better away
from the Hotel Clericy, Monsieur le Vicomte."

The old man slowly rose and came to the window, standing behind me.

"Oh--la, la!" he muttered in his quaint way--an exclamation
uncomplimentary to myself; for our neighbours across channel reserve
the syllables exclusively for their disasters.

We looked down at Lucille, standing amid the chrysanthemums, lending
to their pink and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the flowers.

"But it is a child, mon ami," said the Vicomte, with his tolerant
smile.

"Yes--I ought to know better, I admit," answered I, rising and
attending to the papers on the writing table, and I laughed without
feeling very merry. I sat down and began mechanically to work. At all
events, my conscience had won this time--and if the Vicomte pressed
me to stay, he did so with full knowledge of the danger.

The window was open. The Evil One prompted Lucille at that moment to
break into one of those foolish little songs of Provence, and the
ink dried on my pen.

[Illustration: STANDING AMID THE CHRYSANTHEMUMS, LENDING TO THEIR PINK
AND WHITE