“I am so happy about our holiday,” she said; “it is a long time since Walter and I had a real one together.” “I am delighted that it has been arranged. I feel sure that Walter will enjoy it with so charming a companion,” he answered, with an effort at gallantry that touched her. “Are you going away this Whitsuntide?” she asked. “No. I seldom go away from London, or my work.” “I wish you were going to have a holiday, with some one you liked,” she said. “My dear lady,” and he gave a little sigh as he spoke, “I fear the only society I am fitted for is my own.” “Oh no, you are much too modest”—and she tried to laugh. “Some day I hope to buy you a butter-dish. I shall like going to get it so much, dear Mr. Fisher.” “I think not,” he answered almost sadly. “Ethel says you have been very kind to her about George,” Florence said in a low voice, for she was almost afraid to refer to it; “but you are kind to everybody.” Mr. Fisher turned and looked at her with a grateful expression in his clear blue eyes; but she knew that he did not want to make any other answer. Gradually he put on his editorial manner, as if to ward off more intimate conversation, and when he left her at the door of her house, for he refused to come in, she felt, while she looked after him, as if she had been present at the ending of the last little bit of romance in his life. * * * * * The Hibberts were in high spirits when they started for their holiday. “Two days in Paris,” he said, as they drove to the hotel; “and then we’ll crawl down France towards the south, and I will introduce you to the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a pity we can only eat one dinner a night, considering the number of good ones there are to be had here. To be sure, if we manage carefully, we can do a little supper on the Boulevard afterwards; still, that hardly counts. But I don’t think we can stay any longer, dear Floggie, even to turn you into a Parisian.” Forty-eight hours later saw them in the express for Marseille, where they stayed a night, in order to get the coast scenery by daylight, as they went on to Monte Carlo. “It’s a wonderful city,” Walter said, with a sigh, as they strolled under the trees on the Prado. “The Jew, and the Turk, and the Infidel, and every other manner of man, has passed through it in his turn. Doesn’t it suggest all sorts of pictures to you, darling?” “Yes,” she answered, a little absently; “only I was thinking of Monty and Catty.” “We ought to wait a day, and go to see Monte Christo’s prison.” “Yes”—but she was not very eager. Her thoughts were with her children. Walter was able to enjoy things, and to garnish them with the right memories. “I wonder if we shall find letters from home when we get to Monte Carlo?” she said. “I hope so,” he answered gently, but he said no more about the associations of Marseille.