d. He studied her way of saying good-bye to him
when he left in the morning, and he analyzed her smile of greeting on
his return. He could not watch her himself, nor could he confide to any
other person the distrust with which she inspired him. He knew how often
a woman surrounds the man whom she deceives in an atmosphere of tender
attentions,--the manifestations of hidden remorse. Once, on his way
home, he thought he saw Hirsch and Labassandre turning a distant corner.

"Has any one been here?" he said to the concierge; and by the way he was
answered he saw that some plot was already organized against him.
The Sunday after on his return from Etiolles he found his mother so
completely absorbed in her book that she did not even hear him come in.
He would not have noticed this, knowing her mania for romances, had not
Ida made an attempt to conceal the book.

"You startled me," she said, half pouting.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Nothing,--some nonsense. And how are our friends?" But as she spoke,
a blush covered her face and glowed under her fine transparent skin.
It was one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that she was at
once prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she
rose from her chair. "You wish to know what I am reading! Look, then."
He saw once more the glossy cover of the Review that he had read for
the first time in the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinner
and smaller. Jack would not have opened it if the following title on the
outer page had not met his eyes:--

THE PARTING.

A POEM.

By the Vicomte Amacry d'Abgentoh.

And commenced thus:--

"TO ONE WHO HAS GONE.

"What! with out one word of farewell, Without a turn of the head..."

Two hundred lines followed these. That there might be no mistake, the
name of Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazine
with a shrug of the shoulders. "And he dared to send you this?"

"Yes; two or three days ago."

Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After a
while she stooped, carelessly.

"You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply
absurd."

"But I do not think them so."

"He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no
human heart."

"Be more just, Jack,"--her voice trembled,--"heaven knows that I know
M. D'Argenton better than any one, his faults and the defects of his
nature, because I have