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This last suggestion, which naturally did not appear to any well-regulated mind to harmonize with what had gone before, restored voice to Miss Bussey.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you mad?” she demanded.

John sat down beside her. His friends anticipated a distinguished Parliamentary career for John; he could make anything sound reasonable. Miss Bussey was fascinated by his suave and fluent narrative of what had befallen Mary and himself; she could not but admire his just remarks on the providential disclosure of the true state of the case before it was too late, and sympathized with the picture of suffering nobly suppressed which grew under his skilful hand; she was inflamed when he ardently declared his purpose of seeking out Dora; she was touched when he kissed Mary’s hand and declared that the world held no nobler woman. Before John’s eloquence even the stern facts of a public engagement, of invited guests, of dresses ordered and presents received, lost their force, and the romantic spirit, rekindled, held undivided sway in Miss Bussey’s heart.

“But,” she said, “why does Mary talk of going to Cannes with you?”

“Mr. Ellerton is at Cannes, Aunt,” murmured Mary, shyly.

“But you can’t travel with John.”

“Oh, but you must come too.”

“It looks as if you were running after him.”

“I’ll chance Charlie thinking that,” cried Mary, clasping her hands in glee.

Miss Bussey pretended to be reluctant to undertake the journey, but she was really quite ready to yield, and soon everything was settled on the new basis.

“And now to write and tell people,” said Miss Bussey. “That’s the worst part of it.”

“Poor dear! We’ll help,” cried Mary. “But I must write to Cannes.”

“Wire!” cried John.

“Of course, wire!” echoed Mary.

“The first thing tomorrow.”

“Before breakfast.”

“Mary, I shall never forget—-.”

“No, John, it’s you who—-.” and they went off in a torrent of mutual laudation.

Miss Bussey shook her head.

“If they think all that of one another why don’t they marry?” she said.

CHAPTER IV

THE TALE OF A POSTMARK

“Yes,” said Lady Deane, “we leave today week: Roger has to be back the first week in May, and I want to stop at one or two places en route.”

“Let’s see. To-day’s the 19th, no, the 20th; there’s nothing to remind one of time here. That’ll be the 27th. That’s about my date; we might go together if you and Deane have no objection.”

“Oh, I should be delighted, General; and shall you stay at all in Paris?”

“A few days–just to show Dolly the sights.”

“How charming! And you and I must have some expeditions together. Roger is so odd about not liking to take me.”

“We’ll do the whole thing, Lady Deane,” answered General Bellairs, heartily. “Notre Dame, the Versailles, the Invalides, Eiffel Tower.”

Lady Deane’s broad white brow showed a little pucker.

“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” said she. “Oh, but Roger could take Dora to those, couldn’t he, while you and I made a point of seeing some of the real life of the people? Of studying them in their ordinary resorts, their places of recreation and amusement.”

“Oh, the Francais, and the opera, and so on, of course.”

“No, no, no,” exclaimed Lady Deane, tapping her foot impatiently and fixing her gray eyes on the General’s now puzzled face. “Not the same old treadmill in Paris as in London! Not that, General!”

“What then, my dear lady?” asked he. “Your wish is law to me,” and it was true that he had become very fond of his earnest young friend. “What do you want to see? The Chamber of Deputies?”

Sir Roger’s voice struck in.

“I’m not a puritanical husband, Bellairs, but I must make a stand somewhere. Not the Chamber of Deputies.”

“Don’t be silly, Roger dear,” said Lady Deane, in her usual tone of dispassionate reproof.

“I can’t find out where she does want to go to,” remarked the General.

“I can tell you,” said Sir Roger, and he leant down and whispered a name; in the General’s ear. The General jumped.