the old marquise, such as one sees portrayed at times on
the boards of the Comedie Francaise, and after I had acted as interpreter
for a quarter of an hour or so, she suddenly turned upon the master and,
to the surprise of all of us, addressed him in perfect French. It was
this which broke the spell. Though M. Zola was taken aback, he responded
politely enough, and the conversation went on in French for some minutes,
but I could already tell that he had renounced his intention of renting
the house. When we drove away, after promising the lady a decisive answer
within a day or two, he said to me:

'That would never do. The lady's French was too good. She looked at me
rather suspiciously too. She would soon discover my identity. She has
probably heard of me already.'

'Who hasn't?' I responded with a laugh. And once again I brought forward
the objections that occurred to me with respect to the plan of remaining
at Wimbledon. It was a centre of Roman Catholic activity. There was a
Jesuit college there, numbering both French professors and French pupils.
Moreover, several French families resided in Wimbledon, and with some of
them I was myself acquainted. Then also the population included a good
many literary men, journalists, and others who took an interest in the
Dreyfus case. And, finally, the town was far too near to London to be in
anywise a safe hiding-place.

Nevertheless, M. Zola only abandoned his intentions with regret. In that
bright sunshiny weather there was an attractive _je ne sais quoi_ about
Wimbledon which charmed him. Not that it was in his estimation an ideal
place. The descents from the hill and the Ridgeway (though he admired the
beautiful views they afforded, stretching as far as Norwood) appalled him
from certain practical standpoints, and he was never weary of expatiating
on the pluck of the girls who cycled so boldly and gracefully from the
hill crest to the lower parts of the town. Here it may be mentioned that
M. Zola has become reconciled to the skirt as a cycling garment. Once
upon a time he was an uncompromising partisan of 'rationals' and
'bloomers,' a warm adherent of the views which Lady Harberton and her
friends uphold. But sojourn in England has changed all that--at least so
far as the English type of girl is concerned. Those who have read his
novel, 'Paris,' may remember that he therein ascribed the following
remarks to his heroine--Marie: 'Ah! there is nothing like rationals! To
think