Bethune threw away the match with which he had been lighting his cigar and blew a contemptuous puff. "Before she married Sir Arthur," said he, "she was the wife of a comrade of mine. It is my desire, it is my intention, to write the life of that comrade. I require the co-operation of Lady Gerardine. She refused it to me. I went to Sir Arthur." "You went to Sir Arthur," repeated the Frenchman, in tones of one almost stunned with amazement. "Yes," answered the officer, gravely. "To make her accede to my request." "And he——" "Oh, he has promised to see that she does so at once." For a while M. Châtelard was fain to proceed in silence, words failing him before so extraordinary a situation. As he went he regarded the Englishman with ever-increasing respect, admiration, not to say enthusiasm. "_Voilà qui est raide ... voilà qui est fort!_" he was saying to himself. "Was I not right to tell myself that there was something truly remarkable about this young man? What a drama! What could not our Balzac have made of it! The well-conserved—but elderly, yes, elderly husband; the young, lovely, bored wife—ah, but she bores herself, the young wife! And then this young, handsome, sinister officer who has known her before, loved her it is clear from the first—the wife of his comrade! He comes to her with a plan ... a plan of an astuteness to deceive an angel. But the woman who loves is never deceived. Because she loves him, she reads his heart. Virtuous, she refuses.... They are both young, she knows her weakness. She bores herself, yes, she bores herself, but she refuses. And he, what does he do, the young, silent, determined adorer? My faith, it is the simplicity of genius: he goes to the old husband, that the old husband may order her to yield to his scheme. And the husband—and this is the strangest part of it all—what does he say? Oh, it is simple, simple in the extreme. He promises to do so at once. What a story! And my friend here, under the starlight, qualifies it in three words: ’No favour—justice.’ It is of a cynicism! Yet yonder he stands, as grave and cold as a judge. Poor Sir Gerardine. But here is a young man who will make his way—and, for the psychologist, what a study!" "My faith," said he aloud, "but you have courage, sir." "Courage?" "Ah, you thought I did not notice Lady Gerardine! I will tell you something—as one man to another—she is one who will not make her lover’s task easy to him, nor amusing, hey! With her it will be all or nothing: the grand passion. Ah, my gallant friend, believe the word of one who has had experience in these matters! Avoid the grand passion, for it’s what makes cinders of our manhood." It was Bethune’s turn to halt amazed. "I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "But are you warning me against falling in love with Lady Gerardine?" Then, overcome with the humour of the idea, he threw back his head and gave vent to his short laugh.