As they were leaving the big hotel on the Cannebière, the next morning, a lady entered it. She had evidently just arrived—her luggage was being carried in. “I shall be here three nights,” they heard her say to the manageress. “I leave for England on Thursday morning.” At the sound of her voice Florence turned round, but she had gone towards the staircase. The Hibberts had to catch their train, and could not wait. “It was Mrs. North, Walter,” Florence said, as they drove to the station; “I wish I could have spoken to her. She looked so lonely entering that big hotel.” “But there was no time,” he answered; “if we lost our train we should virtually lose a day.” “I wonder why she has come here?” “The ways of women are inscrutable.” “I meant to have written and told her about Aunt Anne, but I had so much to do before we left London that I really forgot it.” “You might send her a line from Monte Carlo; you heard her say that she was to be at Marseille three days: and then, perhaps, it would be better to leave her alone.” “I should like to write to her just once, for I am afraid I was not very kind that day; but she took me by surprise.” “Very well, then; write to her from Monte Carlo. It will give her an idea that we are not such terrible patterns of virtue ourselves, and perhaps she’ll find that a consolation; but I don’t see what more we can do for her. It is very difficult to help a woman in her position. She has put out to sea in an open boat, and, even if she doesn’t get wrecked, every craft she runs against is sure to hurt her.” * * * * * The letter was duly written and sent to the hotel at Marseille. It found Mrs. North sitting alone, in her big room on the first floor. She was beside the open window, watching the great lighted _cafés_ and the happy people gathered in little groups round the tables on the pavement.