solation which, by design or otherwise,
shows in him, for the moment I am conscious of a pity or an interest
which I flout in wiser hours. This is his art, the potent danger of his
personality.

To-night he came, and with many fine phrases wished us a happy day
to-morrow, and most deftly worked upon my mother and Georgette by
looking round and speaking with a quaint sort of raillery--half pensive,
it was--of the peace of this home-life of ours; and indeed, he did it so
inimitably that I was not sure how much was false and how much true.
I tried to avoid him to-day, but my mother as constantly made private
speech between us easy. At last he had his way, and then I was not
sorry; for Georgette was listening to him with more colour than she is
wont to wear. I would rather see her in her grave than with her hand in
his, her sweet life in his power. She is unschooled in the ways of the
world, and she never will know it as I now do. How am I sounding all
the depths! Can a woman walk the dance with evil, and be no worse for it
by-and-bye? Yet for a cause, for a cause! What can I do? I can not say,
"Monsieur Doltaire, you must not speak with me, or talk with me; you are
a plague-spot." No, I must even follow this path, so it but lead at last
to Robert and his safety.

Monsieur, having me alone at last, said to me, "I have kept my word as
to the little boast: this Captain Moray still lives."

"You are not greater than I thought," said I.

He professed to see but one meaning in my words, and answered, "It was
then mere whim to see me do this thing, a lady's curious mind, eh? My
faith, I think your sex are the true scientists: you try experiment for
no other reason than to see effect."

"You forget my deep interest in Captain Moray," said I, with airy
boldness.

He laughed. He was disarmed. How could he think I meant it! "My
imagination halts," he rejoined. "Millennium comes when you are
interested. And yet," he continued, "it is my one ambition to interest
you, and I will do it, or I will say my prayers no more."

"But how can that be done no more,
Which ne'er was done before?"

I retorted, railing at him, for I feared to take him seriously.

"There you wrong me," he said. "I am devout; I am a lover of the
Scriptures--their beauty haunts me; I go to mass--its dignity affects
me; and I have prayed, as in my youth I wrote verses. It is not a matter
of morality, but of temperament. A man may be religious and yet be ev