"Not exactly strangers, dear; but it's better to be together, just our two selves--just our one self, isn't it? And we'll be that always now," he continued joyously as he sat down in an arm-chair and drew her to his knee. "Just we two. No more business. Never again. I have earned my reward and got it. The blessed mine has served its turn and is gone--going, going, gone--and at a splendid figure. Sold to M. Henri Duperre Boussingault et Cie., for----I told you the figure, didn't I--_our_ figure? Isn't it splendid?" "I am glad," said Muriel. "You don't really object?" he asked. "Why should I? Of course I am glad." "But don't you remember? Once you said that you didn't want me to sell it." "Did I? Oh, yes; I do remember--but you showed me how foolish that was." He laughed happily. "I am a great converter," he said. "If you could only have heard me converting those Frenchmen to my belief in the mine, Muriel--and mostly through interpreters, too; for only two of them spoke any English, and you know what my French is. But I wrote you all that." "Yes," replied Muriel, "you wrote me all that." "I can't say so much for your letters," Jim went on. "They were a little brief, dearie: brief and rather vague. Did you miss me?" "Yes, Jim." "Did you? Maybe I didn't miss you! Oh, how I wanted to be with you. On Wednesday, while they were thinking it over for the hundredth time and there was nothing for me to do but knock about Lyons, I nearly jumped on a train to come all the way here to see you. How would you have liked that?" "I should----" She stopped and put her head on his shoulder. "Poor dear," he said; "poor lonely girly! You did miss me, then? Were the Boussingaults kind? Of course they were; but how were they kind? Tell me all about your visit there. I was glad to get every line you wrote me; I kissed your signature every night and each morning; but you didn't tell me much news, dearest. Tell me now about your visit to the Boussingaults." Muriel sat upon his knee. "I didn't go to the Boussingaults," she said. "What?" Stainton started so that he almost unseated her. "I didn't go to the Boussingaults," she repeated. "But, dearest, how--What?--Where were you? You mean to say that you stayed here, alone, in this hotel?" She nodded. Stainton was amazed; he was shocked that she could have deceived him and sorely troubled at the effect of this on the Boussingaults. "You never told me," he said. "You might have told me, Muriel. Why did you do such a foolish thing? Why did you do it?" Muriel stood up. She turned her back toward him. "I don't know," she said. "I--Oh, you know I couldn't bear that man!" "But you might have told me, dear. Why, all my letters went there! Then you never got my letters?" She shook her head. "Muriel! And you pretended--Didn't Madame Boussingault call for you? She said she would call the afternoon that I left." "I suppose she did."