The dinner to which the beautiful and dangerous Queen Anne had invited me was one the more to be avoided, as it plunged me once more into the current of emotions I had stemmed so resolutely and painfully. I sat down to write a note of refusal, which I put into an envelope and stamped. Then instead of sending the letter to the post, I put it in my pocket to post myself. I called a passing cab, and instead of telling the driver to stop at the nearest post office I gave him Molan’s address, Place Delaborde—the house I had sworn not to enter again. Would there not still be time to send my refusal after finding out from Jacques the reason of Madam de Bonnivet’s amiability, about which I could say with Ségur of the promotion of officers, after the battle of Moskwa: “These favours threatened?” The page showed me this time into the great man’s study. Molan was sitting at his writing-table which was of massive oak with numerous drawers in it. Bookcases were all round this little room, and in appearance the volumes were works of reference often used but always put back in their places. There was no dust on them, nor was there any trace of the disorder to be found with the writer-born, whose fancy ceaselessly interrupts his work. A high desk held out an invitation for standing composition. Another bookcase, lofty and revolving, full of dictionaries, atlas, books of reference, and maps stood at the corner of the writing-table; and the order of the latter piece of furniture, with its sheets of paper carefully cut, its stock of useful articles, its place for answered letters and for letters to be answered, demonstrated the methodical habits of work daily allotted and executed. These details of practical installation were too like their owner for a single one to escape me. There was not a work of art to be seen, not even on the mantelpiece, where stood the usual library clock. This timepiece which marked the hours of work was a good, accurate instrument, metallic and clear in its glass and copper case.