is an affair of the heart and nothing more. There is some
one in England: some blonde English girl. They are always washing, I am
told. And certainly they have that air--like a garment that has been too
often to the blanchisseuse and has lost its substance. A beautiful skin,
I allow you. But so thin--so thin."

"The skin, madame?" inquired the Abbe Touvent, with that gentle and
cackling humour in which the ordained of any Church may indulge after a
good dinner.

The Abbe Touvent had, as a matter of fact, been Madame de Chantonnay's
most patient listener through the months of suspense that followed Loo
Barebone's sudden disappearance. Needless to say he agreed ardently with
whatever explanation she put forward. Old ladies who give good dinners
to a Low Church British curate, or an abbe of the Roman confession, or,
indeed, to the needy celibate exponents of any creed whatsoever, may
always count upon the active conversational support of their spiritual
adviser. And it is not only within the fold of Papacy that careful
Christians find the road to heaven made smooth by the arts of an
efficient cook.

"You know well enough what I mean, malicious one," retorted the lady,
arranging her shawl upon her fat shoulders.

"I always think," murmured the Abbe, sipping his digestive glass of
eau-de-vie d'Armagnac, which is better than any cognac of Charente--"I
always think that to be thin shows a mean mind, lacking generosity."

"Take my word for it," pursued Madame de Chantonnay, warming to her
subject, "that is the explanation of the young man's disappearance. They
say the government has taken some underhand way of putting him aside.
One does not give credence to such rumours in these orderly times. No:
it is simply that he prefers the pale eyes of some Mees to glory and
France. Has it not happened before, Abbe?"

"Ah! Madame--" another sip of Armagnac.

"And will it not happen again? It is the heart that has the first word
and the last. I know--I who address you, I know!"

And she touched her breast where, very deeply seated it is to be
presumed, she kept her own heart.

"Ah! Madame. Who better?" murmured the Abbe.

"Na, na!" exclaimed Madame de Chantonnay, holding up one hand, heavy
with rings, while with the other she gathered her shawl closer about
her as if for protection. "Now you tread on dangerous ground, wicked
one--WICKED! And you so demure in your soutane!"

But the Abbe only laughed and held up his small gla