Mr. Darcy approved their choice. “You couldn’t do better,” he said in his well-bred, slightly languid voice, the cultivated tones of which appealed strongly to Miss Larchester. “’Pon my word, I think I might as well stay there myself. If you don’t want to see too much of me,” he added with his charming smile, “you’ve only got to give me a hint. I shan’t intrude.” “You won’t intrude,” said Miss Buckley with her usual downrightness. “We shall look upon you as rather a godsend. Neither of us has been to Paris before; it’ll be awfully good of you to show us the ropes.” Darcy replied cordially that it would afford him the greatest pleasure to show them “the ropes,” as the young lady so elegantly put it. When he was asked where he usually stayed, he named half a dozen of the most select hotels, with each one of which he appeared intimately acquainted. The music-hall artist, who had picked up more knowledge of things than her friend, recognized one of them as patronized by Royalty. She was much impressed. She was greatly addicted to slang, living in an atmosphere of it, and she expressed her opinions freely to Lettice later on. “We’ve struck it rich this time, you bet your life,” she said in her picturesque vernacular. “I’ve seen a few ‘toffs’ at the halls, but he beats ’em hollow. He’s ‘the goods,’ and no mistake.” Miss Larchester had drawn the same conclusions, which she would naturally have expressed in different language. Things went swimmingly. They had all their meals together at a table reserved for them by an obsequious waiter. Mr. Darcy showed them all the sights, Notre-Dame, the Louvre, the Bois de Boulogne, the Bourse; he took them to Versailles and Fontainebleau; he accompanied them to the music halls and the theatres where they were a bit bored, as they knew very little of the French language. He spent money like water. Alma, who was no sponger, had begun by offering her share of the expenses, but Darcy would not hear of it. “No lady pays when she is in the company of a man,” he explained with an air of finality. Very soon he told them all about himself with an air of the most engaging frankness. He was an only son; his father had died some five years ago, leaving him a snug little fortune. “By that I don’t mean that I am what would be called a rich man, just decently well off,” was his comment on this particular announcement, “always sure of comfort, now and then a few luxuries.” On their side, the two girls were equally communicative. Alma Buckley did not suffer from false shame. She made no attempt to conceal her humble origin, she used no camouflage about the status of the defunct builder, she frankly avowed her profession. Miss Larchester told the truth about herself and her position, letting her father down as lightly as possible. A man like Darcy could not fail to see the difference between the two women, he said as much to her one day when they were alone.