“Mademoiselle Verbèna, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, the father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?” An expression of stark amazement came into the lady’s face at these words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne’s then gave a little cry. “_Mon Dieu!_ It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise. And then—what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from madame?” “I was just about to ask you the very same question!” cried Mr. Greyne. IV “Alas, monsieur!” said Mademoiselle Verbèna in her silvery voice, “I go to see my poor mother.” “But I understood that she was dying in Paris.” “Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honoré, I found that they had removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said—a warm climate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know. They took her away at once. And now I follow—perhaps to find her dead.” Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected. “Let us hope for the best,” he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration. The Levantine strove to smile. “But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with you! Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more⸺” Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement. “I am quite alone,” he said. A tragic expression came into the Levantine’s face. “But, then⸺” she began. It was impossible for him to tell her about “Catherine.” He was, therefore, constrained to subterfuge. “I—I was suddenly overtaken by—by influenza,” he said, in some confusion. “The doctor recommended change of air, of scene. He suggested Algiers⸺” “_Mon Dieu!_ It is like poor mamma!” “Precisely. Our constitutions are—are doubtless similar. I shall take this opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African manners and—and customs.” A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbèna’s face, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain. “My teeth make me bad,” she said. “Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to pray for poor mamma—” she paused, then softly added, “and for monsieur.” She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her to remain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knew solaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon the distant shore. “Better stay!” he said. “The air will do you good.” “Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in the world who cares for me, for whom I care.” “There—there is Mrs. Greyne,” said her husband. “And then St. Paul’s—remember St. Paul’s.” “Ah _ce charmant_ St. Paul’s! Shall I ever see him more?” She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly—he knew not why—Mr. Greyne remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed. “Monsieur has fever!” Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously.