“Mees Meemy,” continued M. Lacordaire, “is very anxious to see the rock, and I may perhaps hope that Mees Lilian would be pleased with such a little excursion. As for myself—” and then M. Lacordaire put his hand upon his heart in a manner that seemed to speak more plainly than he had ever spoken. “Well, if the children would really like it, and—as you are so very kind,” said Mrs. Thompson; and so the matter was conceded. “To-morrow afternoon?” suggested M. Lacordaire. But Mrs. Thompson fixed on Saturday, thereby showing that she herself was in no hurry for the expedition. “Oh, I am so glad!” said Mimmy, when they had re-entered their own room. “Mamma, do let me tell Lilian myself when I go up to the school to-morrow!” But mamma was in no humour to say much to her child on this subject at the present moment. She threw herself back on her sofa in perfect silence, and began to reflect whether she would like to sign her name in future as Fanny Lacordaire, instead of Fanny Thompson. It certainly seemed as though things were verging towards such a necessity. A marchand! But a marchand of what? She had an instinctive feeling that the people in the hotel were talking about her and M. Lacordaire, and was therefore more than ever averse to asking any one a question. As she went up to the school the next afternoon, she walked through more of the streets of Le Puy than was necessary, and in every street she looked at the names which she saw over the doors of the more respectable houses of business. But she looked in vain. It might be that M. Lacordaire was a marchand of so specially high a quality as to be under no necessity to put up his name at all. Sir Hommajee Bommajee’s name did not appear over any door in Bombay;—at least, she thought not. And then came the Saturday morning. “We shall be ready at two,” she said, as she left the breakfast-table; “and perhaps you would not mind calling for Lilian on the way.” M. Lacordaire would be delighted to call anywhere for anybody on behalf of Mrs. Thompson; and then, as he got to the door of the salon, he offered her his hand. He did so with so much French courtesy that she could not refuse it, and then she felt that his purpose was more tender than ever it had been. And why not, if this was the destiny which Fate had prepared for her?