It was not his paltry income, nor the small chance he had of increasing it. If I loved a man, I felt that I could work for him, cooking dinners or scrubbing floors every day of my life, and be happier so, a great deal, than unloved and alone. But the one I slaved for must be superior to me. And poor Charlie was not. There was no conceit in saying so—it was the veritable fact. He was a dear good old boy, and I felt sure that some day he would make some woman very happy indeed; but it could never be myself. Our natures didn’t coalesce. I was too clear-sighted concerning him for any chance to remain of my friendship ripening into love. I saw so much too plainly that his hair was sandy and his moustaches nearly red, and that he had no idea of argument, and was uncomfortable in society, and appeared as though he had been unused to it. Still I wished he had written to me. During the three months I had spent in St. Pucelle, though Mrs. Sandilands had sent me a letter almost every week, she had never enclosed more than a message from her son; and I was curious about him, as all women are about their lovers, and wanted to find out if he had forgotten me, or was still silly enough to fret because I would not settle down in the bosom of his family as Mrs. Sandilands the Second. What induced me to think about him so much that morning I do not know; but amongst my psychological studies, I have often observed the curious manner in which coming events often cast their shadow on the brain. Anyway, I was still sitting over that sheet of paper, nibbling my pen, and thinking of Charlie, when some one knocked at my bedroom door. ‘All right!’ I called out, imagining it to be a summons to _goûter_. ‘I’m very glad it’s ready, for I’m as hungry as I can be.’ ‘But no,’ replied Ange’s merry voice, in French, ‘you are an hour out of your reckoning, Hilda: it is only half-past eleven. I come to tell you that somebody is waiting for you in the _salle_.’ ‘Somebody! That means that old bore Miss Markham or her bosom friend Mrs. Carolus. No, thank you, _petite_ Ange! I am writing a letter, and cannot be disturbed. Say you could see me nowhere. That will be quite true.’ ‘But supposing it is not Miss Markham or Miss Carolus! Suppose it is a gentleman, Hilda!’ My thoughts flew at once to Monsieur de Nesselrode, and my cheeks flamed like fire. That was because, since he had left off spending his evenings at our house, I had always felt a degree of guilty fear respecting him, under the idea that Mr. Lovett would some day question him too closely concerning his defalcation, and draw from him, perhaps against his will, a relation of the circumstances under which he had come to the determination to give up cards.