dom, because--because----" He looked at her sharply.

"Because what?" she asked, with a faint premonition of danger.

"Because I have found the right person," said the Doctor firmly, "and
shall adopt him this afternoon."

Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. "You have lost your reason," she
said; and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten trouble.

"Not so, my dear," he replied; "I retain its complete exercise. To the
proof: instead of attempting to cloak my inconsistency, I have, by way of
preparing you, thrown it into strong relief. You will there, I think,
recognise the philosopher who has the ecstasy to call you wife. The fact
is, I have been reckoning all this while without an accident. I never
thought to find a son of my own. Now, last night, I found one. Do not
unnecessarily alarm yourself, my dear; he is not a drop of blood to me
that I know. It is his mind, darling, his mind that calls me father."

"His mind!" she repeated, with a titter between scorn and hysterics. "His
mind, indeed! Henri, is this an idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad? His
mind! And what of my mind?"

"Truly," replied the Doctor, with a shrug, "you have your finger on the
hitch. He will be strikingly antipathetic to my ever beautiful Anastasie.
She will never understand him; he will never understand her. You married
the animal side of my nature, dear; and it is on the spiritual side that
I find my affinity for Jean-Marie. So much so, that, to be perfectly
frank, I stand in some awe of him myself. You will easily perceive that I
am announcing a calamity for you. Do not," he broke out in tones of real
solicitude--"do not give way to tears after a meal, Anastasie. You will
certainly give yourself a false digestion."

Anastasie controlled herself. "You know how willing I am to humour you,"
she said, "in all reasonable matters. But on this point----"

"My dear love," interrupted the Doctor, eager to prevent a refusal, "who
wished to leave Paris? Who made me give up cards, and the opera, and the
boulevard, and my social relations, and all that was my life before I
knew you? Have I been faithful? Have I been obedient? Have I not borne my
doom with cheerfulness? In all honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right to
a stipulation on my side? I have, and you know it. I stipulate my son."

Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colours instantly. "You
will break my heart," she sighed.

"Not in the least," said he. "You will