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‘Indeed!’ said she; and she laughed. ‘Now, that is like you–to take credit for the thing you could not help.’

‘My dear,’ returned the Doctor, solemnly, ‘we might have adopted.’

‘Never!’ cried madame. ‘Never, Doctor, with my consent. If the child were my own flesh and blood, I would not say no. But to take another person’s indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much sense.’

‘Precisely,’ replied the Doctor. ‘We both had. And I am all the better pleased with our wisdom, 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 feel a trifling inconvenience for a month, just as I did when I was first brought to this vile hamlet; then your admirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you already as content as ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.’

‘You know I can refuse you nothing,’ she said, with a last flicker of resistance; ‘nothing that will make you truly happier. But will this? Are you sure, my husband? Last night, you say, you found him! He may be the worst of humbugs.’

‘I think not,’ replied the Doctor. ‘But do not suppose me so unwary as to adopt him out of hand. I am, I flatter myself, a finished man of the world; I have had all possibilities in view; my plan is contrived to meet them all. I take the lad as stable boy. If he pilfer, if he grumble, if he desire to change, I shall see I was mistaken; I shall recognise him for no son of mine, and send him tramping.’