Next evening at dinner I noticed that she was dressed more carefully than usual; she wore a cream-coloured gown with a cerise waistband and a cerise bow at the side of her neck. I noticed, too, that she talked less; she seemed preoccupied. And after dinner she seemed anxious; I could not help thinking that she wished her mamma away, and was searching for an excuse to send her to bed. "Mamma, dear, won't you play us the 'Impassionata'?" "But, Milly dear, you know quite well that I can't play it." Mamma was nevertheless persuaded to play not only the "Impassionata" but her entire repertoire. She was not allowed to leave the piano, and had begun to play Sydney Smith when the door opened, and a man's face appeared for a second. Remembering her interest in men, I said: "Did you see that man? What a nice, fresh-looking young man!" She put her finger on her lip, and wrote on a piece of paper: "Not a word. He's my fiancé, and mother doesn't know he's here. She does not approve; he hasn't a bean." ... "Thank you, mother, thank you; you played that sonata very nicely." "Won't you play, my dear?" "No, mother dear, I'm feeling rather tired; we've had a long day." And the two bade me good-night, leaving me alone in the sitting-room to finish a letter. But I had not quite got down to the signature when she came in looking very agitated, even a little frightened. "Isn't it awful?" she said. "I was in the dining-room with my fiancé, and the waiter caught us kissing. I had to beg of him not to tell mamma. He said _'Foi de gentilhomme,_' so I suppose it's all right." "Why not have your fiancé in here? I'm going to bed." "Oh, no, I wouldn't think of turning you out. I'll see him in my bedroom; it's safer, and if one's conscience is clear it doesn't matter what people say." A few days afterwards, as I was slinging my paintbox over my shoulders, I heard some one stop in the passage, and speaking to me through the open door she said: "You were so awfully decent the other night when Donald looked in. I know you will think it cheek; I am the most impudent woman in the world; but do you mind my telling mamma that I am going to the Louvre with you to see the pictures? You won't give me away, will you?" "I never split on any one." "My poor darling ought to go back. He's away from the office without leave, and he may get the sack; but he's going to stay another night. Can you come now? Mamma is in the salon. Come just to say a word to her and we will go out together. Donald is waiting at the corner." Next morning as I was shaving I heard a knock at my door. "_Entré!_" "Oh, I beg your pardon, but I didn't want to miss you. I'll wait for you in the salon." When I came downstairs she showed me a wedding ring. She had married Donald, or said she had.