Madeline was on the alert. She had taken a sincere dislike to this tall, dashing body-guard of hers, with her splendid toilettes, shocking meannesses, her soft manners, and her sharp claws. She was aware that she tampered with her letters. She had surprised her (but not discovered herself); and seen her carry a piece of recently-used blotting-paper and hold it up before the sitting-room mirror; and she was aware, from Josephine, that Mrs. Leach had made an exhaustive search in her room, under pretence of seeking a fur collarette. Oh! she was a clumsy spy. * * * * * In March, when the English season was as its height, and every hotel and villa was packed, an elderly Englishwoman, wearing blue spectacles, and a small sandy-haired girl, wearing a tailor-made and sailor hat--that seal of British livery--toiled up the staircase of the Grand Hotel, followed by their luggage. At the first landing the young lady stopped and stared at a very smart apparition which had just come out of a sitting-room--a pretty, tall girl, dressed with much elegance in a plum-coloured cloth coat and skirt, a white cloth waistcoat, white felt hat with purple velvet, white gloves, white sunshade. Could it be possible that she was Madeline West? Madeline, the pupil-teacher at Mrs. Harper’s? She raised her eyes: yes, it _was_ Madeline. She would speak. “Madeline--West, I am sure. Don’t you remember me at school--Nina Berwick?” “Oh yes, of course,” shaking hands. “Growing up makes a difference, doesn’t it?” (Growing rich makes a difference too.) “You are staying here?” said Miss Berwick effusively. “Yes, we have been here ever since Christmas.” “How nice! I hope we shall see a great deal of one another, and have talks over old times.” “Yes,” assented Madeline, colouring, “that will be charming.” “You are not married, are you, Madeline?” “What has put such an idea into your head?” was the misleading reply. Madeline was clever at evasion and subterfuge: practice makes perfect. “You see we have been living abroad for two years, and are rather out of the way of news. I am living with my aunt, Lady Fitzsandy. She hates England. Well, I’m nearly dead, and very dusty and thirsty. Our rooms are on the _quatrième étage_, and the lift is out of order, I hear, so I must toil up. Ta-ta!” and she hurried away after the porters and her relative. Nina Berwick had left school just after the breaking-up--Madeline recalled this with a sensation of relief. She came from the borders of Scotland, and knew nothing; besides, she was always intensely stupid, and never could remember anything--names, dates, historical events, and even school events went through her sieve-like brain. She had not been a particular friend of Madeline’s, and had only known her in those days when she had fallen from her high estate--never as the rich Miss West.