And, being really sleepy, he had no apprehensions as to the night, and did not want the hot posset which Mlle. Angèle was kind enough to bring up to him after he was in bed and Elspeth had left him, though for politeness' sake he sat up and sipped it, while Mlle. Angèle waited and smiled at him, encouraging him to finish it to the last drop. It had a flavour which Anne did not much relish, but having been taught that it was rude to make remarks on the food which was put before him, he said nothing on this point. Yet he was glad when he had finished, and when Mlle. Angèle, kissing him, went away and left him, with only the night-light and his goldfish for company, to that very sound sleep which was stretching out inviting arms to him. CHAPTER VI "A LITTLE BOY LOST" (1) In a cheap little room, not much more than a garret, at the top of a house off Tottenham Court Road, the Chevalier de la Vireville was shaving himself before a cracked mirror. As he did so he hummed, experimentally, the 'Marseillaise,' which it amused him at times to render, fitting to it, however, when he actually sang it, the burlesque words of Royalist invention, 'le jour de boire est arrivé,' 'c'est pour nous que le boudin grille,' and the rest. The light filtered through the dirty, uncurtained window on to his strong, aquiline features, the bold chin with a cleft in it, the mouth with its lines of recklessness and humour; and threw up too the marks of stress of some kind--it was difficult to tell of what kind--which had bitten into it too deeply for it to be altogether a handsome or an attractive countenance. Even as it was, when Fortuné de la Vireville's smile was merely devil-may-care and not cynical, it had its charm. Yet something had marred his expression, though neither women nor wine held any attraction for him. He followed danger, a commerce which no doubt has purifying effects on some characters, but which in others is apt to breed consequences not altogether commendable; and he followed it intemperately, as though life had very little value for him. With life indeed he possessed only one enduring tie--his mother in Jersey--and, so his friends whispered, the remembrance of another, most untimely snapped. Yet for all this he certainly seemed to find a relish in an existence of the most constant and varied peril, and envisaged his hazards with an unfailing and sometimes inconvenient humour.