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threshold, and only advanced
when bidden to do so by my companion.
[Illustration: "MONSIEUR HOWARD NATURALLY WISHED TO
BE PRESENTED TO YOU."]
An elderly lady stood by the window, having just risen from the broad
seat thereof, which was littered with the trifles of a lady's work-basket.
The Vicomtesse was obviously many years younger than her
husband--a trim woman of fifty or thereabouts, with crinkled grey hair
and the clear brown complexion of the Provençale. Beneath the grey
hair there looked out at me the cleverest eyes I have ever seen in a
human head. I bowed, made suddenly aware that I stood in the presence
of an individuality, near an oasis--as it were--in the dreary desert of
human commonplace. And strange to say, at the same moment my
conscience laid itself down to sleep. Madame la Vicomtesse de Clericy
was a woman capable of guarding those near and dear to her.
"Monsieur Howard," explained her husband, looking at me, with his
white fingers nervously intertwined, "is desirous of filling the post left
vacant by the departure of our friend Charles Miste. We have had a
little talk on affairs. It is possible that we may come to a mutually
satisfactory arrangement. Monsieur Howard naturally wished to be
presented to you."
Madame bowed, her clear dark eyes resting almost musingly on my
face. She waited for me to speak, whereas nine women out of ten would
have broken silence.
"I have explained to Monsieur le Vicomte," I hastened to say, "that I
have none of the requisite qualifications for the post, and that my
female relatives--my aunts, in fact--looked upon me as a mauvais
sujet."
She smiled, and her eyes sought the lace-work held in her busy fingers.
Mademoiselle de Clericy had, I remembered, worn a piece of such
dainty needlework at her throat on the previous morning. I learnt to
look for that piece of ever-growing lace-work in later days. Madame

was never without it, and worked quaint patterns, learnt in a convent on
the pine-clad slopes of Var.
"Monsieur Howard," went on the Vicomte, "is a gentleman of position
in his own country on the east coast of England. He has, however, had a
difference--a difference with his father."
The eyes were raised to my face for a brief moment.
"In the matter of a marriage of convenience," I added, giving the plain
truth on the impulse of the moment, or under the influence, perhaps, of
Madame de Clericy's glance. Then I recollected that this was a different
story from that tale of a monetary difficulty which I had related to
Madame's husband ten minutes earlier. I glanced at him to see whether
he had noticed the discrepancy, but was instantly relieved of my
anxiety, so completely was the old man absorbed in an affectionate and
somewhat humble contemplation of his wife. It was easy to see how
matters stood in the Clericy household, and I conceived a sudden
feeling of relief that so delicate a flower as Mademoiselle de Clericy
should have so capable a guardian in the person of her mother. Evil
takes that shape in which it is first held up to our vision. Incompetent
and careless mothers are in fact criminals. Mademoiselle de Clericy had
one near to her who could at all events clothe necessary knowledge in a
reassuring garment.
"A marriage of convenience," repeated Madame, speaking for the first
time. "It is so easy to be mistaken in such matters, is it not?"
"As easy for the one as for the other, Madame," replied I. "And it was I,
and not my father, who was most intimately concerned."
She looked at me with a little upward nod of the head and a slow, wise
smile. One never knows whence some women gather their knowledge
of the world.
"Monsieur knows Paris?" she asked.
"As an Englishman, Madame."

"Then you only know the worst," was her comment.
She did not ask me to be seated. It was, I suspected, the hour for
déjeûner. For this household was evidently one to adhere to
old-fashioned customs. There was something homelike about this
pleasant lady. Her presence in a room gave to the atmosphere
something refined and womanly, which was new to one who, like
myself, had lived mostly among men. Indeed, my companions of
former days--no saints, I admit--would have been surprised could they
have seen me bowing and making congés to this elderly lady like a
dancing master. Moreover, the post I sought was lapsing into a
domestic situation, for which my antecedents eminently unfitted me,
nor did I pretend to think otherwise. Had I reached the age of discretion?
Is there indeed such an age? I have seen old men and women who make
one doubt it. At thirty-one does a man begin to range himself?