"She'd rather go where she wouldn't meet people whom she knows. The minute she has decided I shall communicate with you again." "But I can see you in the morning before you leave?" The accent was now that of request. The overtone in it was pitiful. "Oh, don't try to, sir. She wants to get away from every one. It will be so much better for her to do just as she likes. She had got to a point where she had to escape from everything she knew and cared about; and so all of a sudden--only--only to-day--she decided to come with me. She doesn't need a trained nurse, because she's perfectly well. All she wants is some one to be with her--whom she knows she can trust. She hasn't even taken Angélique. She simply begs to be alone." In the end I made my point, but only after genuine beseeching on his part and much repetition on mine. Having said good-night to him--he actually used the words--I called up Angélique, in order to bring peace to a household in which the mistress's desertion would create some consternation. Angélique and I might have been called friends. The fact that I spoke French _comme une Française_, as she often flattered me by saying, was a bond between us, and we had the further point of sympathy that we were both devoted to Mrs. Brokenshire. Besides that, there is something in me--I suppose it must be a plebeian streak--which enables me to understand servants and get along with them. I gave her much the same explanation as I gave to Mr. Brokenshire, though somewhat differently put. In addition I asked her to pack such selections from the simpler examples of Mrs. Brokenshire's wardrobe as the lady might need in a country place, and keep them in readiness to send. Angélique having expressed her relief that Mrs. Brokenshire was safe at a known address, in the company of a responsible attendant--a relief which, so she said, would be shared by the housekeeper, the chef, and the butler, all of whom had spent the evening in painful speculation--we took leave of each other, with our customary mutual compliments. Though I was so tired by this time that fainting would have been a solace, I called for a Boston paper and began studying the advertisements of country hotels. Having made a selection of these I consulted the manager of our present place of refuge, who strongly commended one of them. Thither I sent a night-letter commandeering the best, after which, with no more than strength to undress, I lay down on a couch in Mrs. Brokenshire's room. When I knew she was sleeping I, too, slept fitfully. About once in an hour I went softly to her bedside, and finding her dozing, if not sound asleep, I went softly back again. Between four and five we had a little scene. As I approached her bed she looked up and said: "What are we going to do in the morning?" Afraid to tell her all I had put in train, I gave my ideas in the form of suggestion. "No, I sha'n't do that," she said, quietly.