Henceforth there was nothing but Chepstow. Morning, noun, and night it seemed to Ralph he never entered his mother’s drawing-room without coming upon that worthy there ensconced. He grew very tired of it; but finding at last that the millionaire never took offence at anything, came to treat him somewhat unceremoniously, and found it rather convenient to shuffle on to his broad shoulders some of the gentleman-of-the-house duties so unspeakably irksome to his unsociable self. The day came on which an answer to his letter was to be expected. It passed, bringing him nothing. Likewise its successors, one, two, and three, and Ralph began to be very miserable. He waited a few days longer, then thought of writing again; but to what purpose? Why should a second letter fare better than its predecessor? Suddenly a new idea struck him. He was walking near the Rue St. Thomas at the time, and acted at once on the notion. Hitherto he had avoided passing Mrs. Archer’s house. He dreaded the sight of it, and especially of the little terrace; a corner of which was visible from the street. As he stood now at the door after ringing the bell, he heard merry voices above. He stepped back a little and looked up. On the terrace he saw the figure of a young girl about Marion’s height, playing and laughing with some children. They were utter strangers to him; happy, innocent creatures, but at that moment he felt as if he hated them. He was recalled to himself by the voice of Mme. Poulin at the door. She recognized him, and enquired civilly how she could serve him. “Do you happen to know Mrs. Archer’s address?” he asked. “Did she leave it with you before she went? I have some letters of importance to forward to her.” “But yes, certainly,” replied the brisk old woman; “Monsieur shall have it at once. It is mademoiselle that gave it to me. Already have I sent letters, a little bill by example, that madam, in her distress, failed to pay. And I have received the answer with an order for the money. ‘Ces dames étaient gentilles, mais bien gentilles. Cette pauvre Thérèse a bien pleuré leur départ! Eh le petit, ah qu’il était mignon.” “But the address,” reminded Ralph. “Ah yes, the address! I go to seek it.” And she disappeared, in another moment returning with two or three ready directed and stamped envelopes in her band, on each of which was written in a clear girlish hand— “Mrs. George Archer, 23, West Parade, Cheltenham.” “Cheltenham!” exclaimed Ralph, “by Jove, and I put Leamington. My mother’s mistake, evidently, and that snake of a girl suspected my secret and encouraged my mistake. Heaven forgive her, for I can’t. And now— Mme. Poulin saw that something was wrong. “Monsieur fears then that this address will not reach ‘ces dames.’ It is true, they were soon to depart pour les Indes. Mais il faut éspérer—-” “Pour les Indes,” interrupted Ralph, eagerly, “were then both the ladies going there? The young lady, too?” Mme. Poulin looked puzzled.