“I might have known it! They are all alike, these women,” Delaval mutters savagely through his set teeth. “Understand, I don’t mean to hint a word against her morals, in fact, the Ange is extra proper. She always goes about with the most hideous of duennas. But she’s the very devil with men--twists them round her fingers--fools them to any extent--cleans them out and then throws them overboard. Young Valentin de Brissac blew his brains out about her last week, and not very long ago Jules de Grammont Charleville, a capital fellow, and one of the Faubourg St. Germain Charleville’s, went to the bad--took to drinking like a madman--tried to shoot her, and has got five years for it. The Ange is as hard as granite, as calculating as a Jew, and as vain as--well--I really can’t find anything to compare with her vanity.” “Where did you say she lived, Shropshire?” Shropshire looks at him and elevates his eyebrows, while Silverlake bursts out laughing. This is the model Benedict all London has talked about! “I thought you’d soon tire of domestic bliss and look out for pastures new,” Shropshire says. “Well--well--Marguerite won’t have anything to say to me, so I won’t be a dog in the manger, but wish you success. She lives at Number 17 Rue de Tronchet, just close to the Madelaine, you know.” “Thanks.” * * * * * And Delaval, leaving his companions, saunters towards the Champs Elysèes instead of going home. It is a lovely night. There is no moon, but myriads of stars cluster overhead, and somehow the quiet and the stillness of midnight are pleasant to him. He has quite made up his mind to see Marguerite Ange again. It is not because he has fallen in love with her, far from it. The feeling she has inspired in him has at present, at any rate, no particle of love in it, but something draws him on to seeing her--to speaking to her--to saving her from a path that _must_ lead to perdition. And he smiles almost bitterly at such a feeling possessing him about a singing woman at the Alcazar! By and by, when the air has cooled his hot temples a little, and the oppressive sort of spell this evening has brought him disperses somewhat, he goes back to the hotel and enters the room where Zai lies fast asleep. How pretty she looks to his feverish eyes! The purity and sweetness of her face come like a glimpse of blue sky after a storm. She is happy, too, for her red lips part in a smile as she clasps her child close to her heart. Lord Delaval stoops down and kisses her so softly that she never stirs. He is a worshipper of female beauty, and here before him--within his grasp--lies as fair a woman as ever was made to please the eyes of man. His wife--his own! a legitimate object for love and passion and admiration. But men’s hearts are perverse things. Noiselessly as he entered he steals away again to the adjoining room, and without undressing, flings himself into an armchair.