'Oh no, I forgot. Take that out. Dear Margaretta. Circumstances have occurred since I last had the pleasure of seeing you that make it absolutely impossible that I could ever meet you again.' 'Oh, I say!' 'Go on. Ever see you or meet you again. You wish to be kind to her, I suppose?' 'Oh yes.' 'Then say: Duty has to come between us, but God knows I wish you well.' Tears were beginning to come to Lady Everard's eyes, and she spoke with a break in her voice. 'I wish you well, Irene.' 'It's not Irene.' 'I wish you well, Margaretta. Some day in the far distant future you'll think of me, and be thankful for what I have done. It's for your good and my own happiness that we part now, and for ever. Adieu, and may God bless you. How do you sign yourself?' 'Oh, Willie.' 'Very well then, be more serious this time: Always your faithful friend, William Stacey Cricker.' He glanced over the note, his face falling more and more, while Lady Everard looked more and more satisfied. 'Copy that out, word for word, the moment you go back, and send it off,' she said, 'and all the worst of your troubles will be over.' 'I should think the worst is yet to come,' said he ruefully. 'But you promise to do it, Willie? Oh, promise me?' 'Oh yes rather,' said he half-heartedly. 'Word for word?' 'O Lord, yes. That's to say, unless anything--' 'Not a word, Willie; it will be your salvation. Come and see me soon, and tell me the result. Ah! here you are, cher maître!' With a bright smile she welcomed Mr La France, who was now announced, gently dismissing Willie with a push of the left hand. 'Good heavens!' he said to himself, as he got into the cab, 'why, if I were to send a thing like that there would be murder and suicide! She'd show it to her husband, and he'd come round and knock me into a cocked hat for it. Dear Lady Everard--she's a dear, but she doesn't know anything about anything.' He tore the pages out of his pocket-book, and called out to the cabman the address of the Mitchells. 'Ah, chère madame, que je suis fatigué!' exclaimed La France, as he threw himself back against the cushions. His hair was long and smooth and fair, so fair that he had been spoken of by jealous singers as a peroxide blond. His eyes were greenish, and he had dark eyebrows and eyelashes. He was good-looking. His voice in speaking was harsh, but his manner soft and insidious. His talents were cosmopolitan; his tastes international; he had no duties, few pleasures and that entire want of leisure known only to those who have practically nothing whatever to do. 'Fatigued? That's what you always say,' said Lady Everard, laughing. 'But it is always true,' he said, with a strong French accent. 'You should take more exercise, Paul. Go out more in the air. You lead too secluded a life.' 'What exercises? I practise my voice every day, twenty minutes.' 'Ah, but I didn't mean that. I mean in the open air--sport--that sort of thing.'