At the breakfast table I received a telegram from Sander informing me that Paris still held out. He wired me this advice according to arrangement; for he had decided that Miste, feeling, like all Frenchmen, ill at ease abroad, was only awaiting the surrender to return to Paris, and there begin more active measures to realise his wealth. As soon, therefore, as the city fell I was to hasten thither and there meet Sander. The arrival of my message occasioned a small stir in the room, and many keen glances were directed towards me as I read it. I handed it to my nearest neighbour, explaining that he in turn was at liberty to pass the paper on. It was not long before the waiter came to me with the request that he might make known to a young French lady travelling alone any news that would interest one of her nationality. "Certainly," answered I. "Take the telegram to her that she may read it for herself." "But, sir, she knows no English, and although I understand a little French, I cannot speak it." "Then bring me the telegram, and point out to me the lady." "It is the lady who arrived yesterday," answered the waiter. "She came, as I understand, with an old lady and gentleman, but they have left this morning for the Isle of Wight, and she remains alone." He indicated the fair traveller, and I might have guessed her nationality from the fact that, unlike the Englishwomen present, she was breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty woman--no longer quite young--with a pale oval face and deep brown hair. As I approached she, having breakfasted, was drawing her veil down over her face, and subsequently attended to her hat with pretty, studied movements of the hands and arms which were essentially French. She returned my bow with quiet self-possession, and graciously looked to me to speak. "The waiter tells me," I said in French, "that I am fortunate enough to possess some news which may be of interest to you." "If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am _sur des epingles_ until I hear it." I laid the telegram before her, and she looked at it with a pretty shake of the head which wafted to me some faint and pleasant scent. "Translate, if you please," she said. "I blush for an ignorance of which you might have spared me the confession." It was a pretty profile that bent over the telegram, and I wished that I had arrived sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She followed my translation with a nod of the head, but did not raise her eyes. "And this word?" pointing out the name of my agent with so keen an interest that she touched my hand with her gloved fingers. "This word 'Sander,' what is that?" "That," I answered, "is the name of my agent, 'Sander,' the sender of the telegram." "Ah--yes, and he is in London? Yes." "And is he reliable?--excuse my pertinacity, Monsieur--you know, for a Frenchwoman--who has friends at the front--" she gave a little shiver. "Mon Dieu! it is killing."