"My dear sir," said my guardian, with a little, kindly laugh that took the stiffness from the formality of his address and turned it into a little joke, "on my heart, I did not perceive what you were attired in. A host is oblivious of all things but the face and the hand of his guest. Were the Duc de Bassano or M. le Duc de Cadore to turn up at a reception of mine attired as a rag-picker, I would only be conscious that I was receiving the Duc de Cadore or the Duc de Bassano. They would be for me themselves, _however their fellow-guests might sneer_! "And how have we enjoyed ourselves in Paris?" asked the kindly old gentleman, turning from the subject of dress, and lighting a fresh cigar. "Oh, very well," I said. "And, by the way, I have met an old acquaintance." "Ah!" "Mademoiselle Feliciani, a daughter of Count Feliciani." "Count Feliciani, the--er--defaulter?" "I don't know what he may have done," said I, "but I met them years ago, at the Schloss Lichtenberg. Then they were entirely ruined. I met Mademoiselle Feliciani last night in a most curious way; and she has been living in great poverty. In fact, I"--and here I blushed, I believe--"I have taken her under my protection." Protection! Oh, hideous word, uttered in the simplicity of youth! Beautiful word, that men have debased--men who would debase the angels, could they with their foul hands touch those immaculate wings. "I hope, sir, you don't object?" "Object!" "I have given her the Pavilion to live in," continued I, encouraged by my guardian's smile of frank approval. "The only thing that grieves me is," I went on, "that her mother is dead, and that I cannot offer her my protection, too." My guardian opened his eyes at this; and I blundering along, blushing, surprised into one of those charming confidences of youth which youth so rarely betrays, told him of the beauty of the Countess Feliciani, and of how much I had admired her as a child, and how I had visited her and seen her, prematurely aged, ruined, the gold of her beautiful hair turned to snow, her face lined with the wrinkles of age; and then it was, I think, that M. le Vicomte began to perceive that my relationship with Eloise was other than what he had imagined. "A pure love!" I can imagine him saying to himself. "Why, mon Dieu! that might lead to marriage--marriage with a Feliciani--an outcast, a beggar! We must arrange all this; it is a question of diplomacy." But by no sign did he betray these thoughts. He listened to the woes of the Felicianis, the picture of sympathetic benevolence; and, when I had finished, he said: "Ah, poor things!" And then, after a moment's reverie, as though he were recalling the love affairs of his own youth: "It is sad. Tell me, are you very much enamoured of this Mademoiselle Feliciani?" "Good heavens!" I said. "No. I care for her only--only--that is to say, I only care for herself." A confused statement apparently, yet an unconscious and profound criticism on Love.