She found in her drawing-room the little elderly Frenchman, M. de Chalumeau, whom Longmore had observed a few days before on the terrace. On this occasion too Madame Clairin was entertaining him, but as her sister-in-law came in she surrendered her post and addressed herself to our hero. Longmore, at thirty, was still an ingenuous youth, and there was something in this lady’s large assured attack that fairly intimidated him. He was doubtless not as reassured as he ought to have been at finding he had not absolutely forfeited her favour by his want of resource during their last interview, and a suspicion of her being prepared to approach him on another line completed his distress. “So you’ve returned from Brussels by way of the forest?” she archly asked. “I’ve not been to Brussels. I returned yesterday from Paris by the only way--by the train.” Madame Clairin was infinitely struck. “I’ve never known a person at all to be so fond of Saint-Germain. They generally declare it’s horribly dull.” “That’s not very polite to you,” said Longmore, vexed at his lack of superior form and determined not to be abashed. “Ah what have I to do with it?” Madame Clairin brightly wailed. “I’m the dullest thing here. They’ve not had, other gentlemen, your success with my sister-in-law.” “It would have been very easy to have it. Madame de Mauves is kindness itself.” She swung open her great fan. “To her own countrymen!” Longmore remained silent; he hated the tone of this conversation. The speaker looked at him a little and then took in their hostess, to whom M. de Chalumeau was serving up another epigram, which the charming creature received with a droop of the head and eyes that strayed through the window. “Don’t pretend to tell me,” Madame Clairin suddenly exhaled, “that you’re not in love with that pretty woman.” “Allons donc!” cried Longmore in the most inspired French he had ever uttered. He rose the next minute and took a hasty farewell. VI