Should she marry again,—and she put it to herself quite hypothetically,—she would look for no romance in such a second marriage. She would be content to sit down in a quiet home, to the tame dull realities of life, satisfied with the companionship of a man who would be kind and gentle to her, and whom she could respect and esteem. Where could she find a companion with whom this could be more safely anticipated than with M. Lacordaire? And so she argued the question within her own breast in a manner not unfriendly to that gentleman. That there was as yet one great hindrance she at once saw; but then that might be remedied by a word. She did not know what was his income or his profession. The chambermaid, whom she had interrogated, had told her that he was a “marchand.” To merchants, generally, she felt that she had no objection. The Barings and the Rothschilds were merchants, as was also that wonderful man at Bombay, Sir Hommajee Bommajee, who was worth she did no know how many thousand lacs of rupees. That it would behove her, on her own account and that of her daughters, to take care of her own little fortune in contracting any such connection, that she felt strongly. She would never so commit herself as to put security in that respect out of her power. But then she did not think that M. Lacordaire would ever ask her to do so; at any rate, she was determined on this, that there should never be any doubt on that matter; and as she firmly resolved on this, she again took up her book, and for a minute or two made an attempt to read. “Mamma,” said Mummy, “will M. Lacordaire go up to the school to see Lilian when you go away from this?” “Indeed, I cannot say, my dear. If Lilian is a good girl, perhaps he may do so now and then.” “And will he write to you and tell you how she is?” “Lilian can write for herself; can she not?” “Oh yes; I suppose she can; but I hope M. Lacordaire will write too. We shall come back here some day; shan’t we, mamma?” “I cannot say, my dear.” “I do so hope we shall see M. Lacordaire again. Do you know what I was thinking, mamma?” “Little girls like you ought not to think,” said Mrs. Thompson, walking slowly out of the room to the top of the stairs and back again; for she had felt the necessity of preventing Mimmy from disclosing any more of her thoughts. “And now, my dear, get yourself ready, and we will go up to the school.”