Then, walking briskly back again, they paid a visit to the pastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione, and lunched off oyster patties and babas, finishing up with the tiniest glass of curaçoa, as a suitable defense against the cold. Lady Gwendolyn was arranging her veil after this moderate but dainty refection, when a very magnificent dame rustled into the shop, and said, in abominable French, which, however, she seemed delighted to air: “_Donnez moi oon patty, mademoiselle, et dépêche parceque je suis en hâte._” This pastry-cook being much affected by the English, mademoiselle was accustomed to this sort of thing, and did not even smile as she handed madame her pâté out of the hot safe in the center of the shop, and placed a chair for her beside one of the little marble tables. Lady Gwendolyn glanced furtively at the face belonging to this voice, and then made her way toward the door, keeping as far as possible from the neighborhood of the newcomer, so as not to attract her attention. But Colonel Dacre, who had noticed nothing, turned round from examining some bonbons in the window, and, seeing her close to the door, called out: “Wait a moment, Gwen, I haven’t paid.” The lady at the marble table looked up then, and by simply catching Colonel Dacre’s eye, explained Lady Gwendolyn’s little ruse. “What, you, Norah?” he said, with evident pleasure, as he extended his hand. “What brought you to Paris?” “Well, money; but I forget how much,” she answered, with her old vivacity, although he thought her much thinner and paler than when they met last. “I am getting so tired of England, of everybody, and everything. Is that your wife who has just left the shop so precipitately?” she concluded, with some abruptness. “She has just gone out, certainly.” “To avoid me? You need not deny it, Lawrence, it is very natural she should. However, I have something she ought, in justice, to see. Will you tell me where you are staying?” “At the Hotel d’Albion, close by. If you will tell me where you are, Norah, I will call upon you to-morrow, and take charge of anything you may have for her.” “Thank you, that will be best,” she answered. “Don’t let me keep you from Lady Gwendolyn. I am at the Grand Hotel, number forty three; but don’t come before noon. I sleep so wretchedly nowadays, that I am glad to rest in the morning. If Lady Gwendolyn minds your coming, write me a line instead, and I shall understand. I think if I had a husband I cared for I should be awfully jealous.” “Not if he gave you no cause, I hope.” “Perhaps. But do go. I wouldn’t for the world add to my offenses in your wife’s eyes by exposing her to annoyance. She is much too handsome to be a minute alone in the streets of Paris.” “True,” he said, and hurried off.