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Lady Deane was so engrossed in the study–or the search for opportunities of study–of sides of life with which she was unfamiliar as to be, for the most part, blind to what took place immediately around her. General Bellairs himself (who vaguely supposed that some man might try to make love to his daughter five years hence, and thereupon be promptly sent off with a flea in his ear) was not more unconscious than she that there was, had been, or might be anything, as the phrase runs, ‘between’ the two junior members of the party. Lady Deane had no hints to give and no questions to ask; she seated herself placidly in a corner and began to write in a large note-book. She had been unwillingly compelled to ‘scamp’ Marseilles, but, as she wrote, she found that the rough notes she was copying, aided by fresh memory, supplied her with an ample fund of material. Alternately she smiled contentedly to herself, and gazed out of the window with a preoccupied air. Clearly a plot was brewing-, and the author was grateful to Dora for restricting her interruptions to an occasional impatient sigh and the taking up and dropping again of her Tauchnitz.

With the men tongues moved more.

“Well, General,” said Deane, “what’s Miss Dora’s ultimatum about your staying in Paris?”

Charlie pricked up his ears and buried his face behind La Vie Parisienne.

“You’ll think me very weak, Deane,” rejoined the General, with an apologetic laugh, “but I’ve promised to go straight on if she wants me to.”

“And does she?”

“I don’t know what the child has got in her head, but she says she’ll tell me when she gets to Paris. We shall have a day with you anyhow; I don’t think she’s so set on not staying as she was, but I don’t profess to understand her fancies. Still, as you see, I yield to them.”

“Man’s task in the world,” said Deane. “Eh, Charlie? What are you hiding behind that paper for?”

“I was only looking at the pictures.”

“Quite enough too. You’re going to stay in Paris, aren’t you?”

“Don’t know yet, old fellow. It depends on whether I get a letter calling me back or not.”

“Hang it, one might as well be in a house where the shooting turns out a fraud. Nobody knows that he won’t have a wire any morning and have to go back to town. My wife ‘ll be furious if you desert her, General.”

“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that.”

“I hope awfully that I shall be able to stay,” said Charlie, with obvious sincerity.

“Then,” observed Deane with a slight smile, “if the General and Miss Bellairs leave us you can take my wife about.”

“I should think you might take her yourself,” and he gently kicked Deane. He was afraid of arousing the General’s dormant suspicions.

It was late at night when they arrived in Paris, but the faithful Laing was on the platform to meet them, and received them with a warm greeting. While the luggage was being collected by Deane’s man, they stood and talked on the platform. Presently the General, struck by a sudden thought, asked:

“I suppose nothing came for us at Cannes, oh, Laing? You said you’d bring anything on, you know.”

Laing interrupted a pretty speech which he was trying to direct into Dora’s inattentive ears.

“Beg pardon, General?”

“No letters for any of us before you left Cannes?”

“No, Gen–” he began, but suddenly stopped. His mouth remained open and his glass fell from his eye.

The General, not waiting to hear more than the first word, had rushed of to hail a cab and Deane was escorting his wife. Dora and Charlie stood waiting for the unfinished speech.

The end came slowly and with a prodigious emphasis of despair.

“Oh, by Jove!”

“Well, Mr. Laing?” said Dora.

“The morning you left–just after–there were two telegrams.”

“For me?” said each of his auditors.

“One for each of you, but

“Oh, give me mine.”