"Paquerette!" said George, in real amazement, as she floated in, and when the door had closed on Elizabeth Cawthorne, went a little down on one knee and looked up into George's face, saying, as I have heard the French do to their professors of painting or music,--"_Cher maître!_" George had taught her to do this in the days when he was really her professor, and she wanted to do everything as Bohemians do in the Quartier Latin, but only the way she looked at him as she said it I could tell that she had no further use for him. I was sitting at the type-writer, in the corner of the room, as if I were in my castle, and I stayed there. It was getting dark and they didn't think of turning on the electric light. Besides, George had at first made me a little sign which I understood, because of the _entente cordiale_ we had had for some time, to stay where I was, and I like doing what people seem to want, especially when it goes with what I want myself. Then he forgot me altogether. Lady Scilly, I believe, never saw me at all, for she never said how-do-you-do, or looked my way, and yet we had not quarrelled. George put on his "pretty woman" manner, and raised her, and made her sit in a nice high-backed chair that suited her. "How nice of you to come! My wife is out. By the way, I may as well tell you, she is leaving me." I nearly fell off my chair. Lady Scilly looked upset; for she hadn't come to see Mother, and hadn't thought of asking whether she was out or not. She collected herself, and said to George with some dignity-- "You put it crudely." "I do. I never mince my words, except in books. It is as I say. I shall not oppose it. I hope that my unhappy partner may one day come to know the bourgeois happiness I have been unable to give her. Unlucky fellow that I am--_coeur de célibat_, you know; an Alastor of Fitz John's Avenue, the Villon of Maresfield Gardens----" "No woman's such a fool as to leave a place like this----" "What does Shelley say? _Love first leaves the well-built nest----_" "You certainly are a most extraordinary man!" she mumbled. George puzzled her by changing about so. "Yes," he answered her, smiling. "Come, take off your furs and make yourself at home. Compromise yourself merrily. I suppose now, by all the rights and wrongs of it, I ought to invite you to bolt with me, but I am weak, I shall not." "Are you quite sure you won't be stronger by the end of this interview?" "Oh, is this an interview? Ah, why be formal and boring? Why stable the steed after the horse--I mean the novel is out? It will be a huge success, so your enemies predict. Frederick Cook of _The Bittern_ writes me that this, the latest output of a militant aristocracy, seeking to beat us with our own weapons, is chockful of cleverness and primitive woman. What more do you want?" "D. the novel! I want _you!_" she said, stamping her foot.