One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they had drawn up in the block of carriages by the side of the promenade. The sun was powerful, and the glaring colours in the carriages contrasted with the cool tones of white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut-trees. Clytie was animatedly observing the bright scene when her eyes met those of a woman, quietly though expensively dressed, seated in an open carriage quite close by. For a moment they looked at one another in silent inquiry, and then came a flash of mutual recognition. It was the girl whom Clytie had met the summer before in the hotel at Dinan. The scene, with its mingled associations of wonder and pity, came back to her, and moved by a strong impulse she smiled and moved her head slightly. A look of eager wonderment came over the other's face as she returned Clytie's greeting. And then she turned quickly away to talk to a man who had just come up to the side of the carriage. “Confound it, Clytie!” cried Thornton, setting the horses in motion, “you must really make sure who people are before you bow to them. Do you know who that woman is?” “Yes,” said Clytie, “that is to say, I know what she is. I don't know her name.” “She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, Loulou Mendès. You mustn't go playing the fool like this! What did you bow to her for?” “Because I know her--a little.” “You--know--her?” “Oh, yes, Thornton dear; it is somewhat of a story. I met her accidentally last year in Dinan. She was in trouble, and I took a fancy for her, and seeing her suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised her.” “I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again,” he said shortly, giving a vicious cut to the horses that sent them spinning down the _allée_. “And please to remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian any longer, but my wife.” “Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that!” said Clytie, with a queer little catch at her throat. “They hurt me!” “Well, you mustn't deserve them,” replied Thornton. And then, mollifying at the sight of her distress: “You don't understand these things, little wife.” “Well, never mind, dear,” said Clytie. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. I ought to have considered you; I didn't think of it. She kissed my hand the last time I saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical to have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little matter. Why hurt the girl's feelings? That's why I did it.” “Feelings?” echoed Thornton, with a laugh. “Bah! my good child, you are talking nonsense. She put her feelings up the spout years ago to get herself champagne and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold to the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she going to do with feelings?” “What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And if such women are brutes, it is men who make them so. If men were only kinder and tenderer----” “Like the sentimental idiot in 'Jenny.' That's a poem about it, you know.”