“Give my little girl house-room, will you, Anne?” he had written with that candid and charming simplicity which had made and kept for him a host of friends through all the vicissitudes of his varied and irresponsible career. “I am off once more on a wander-year, and I can’t be tripped up by a petticoat--certainly not my own daughter’s--at every yard. This isn’t quite as cynical as it sounds. You’ll understand, I know. Frankly, a man whose life, to all intents and purposes, is ended, is not fit company for youth and beauty standing palpitating on the edge of the world. By the way, did I tell you that Jean is rather beautiful? I forget. Let her see England--that little corner where you live, down Devonshire way, always means England to my mind. And let her learn to love Englishwomen--if there are any more there like you.” And, having accomplished this characteristic, if somewhat; sketchy provision for his daughter’s welfare, Peterson had gone cheerfully on his way, convinced that he had done all that was paternally encumbent on him. Madame de Varigny was voluble in her regrets at the prospect of losing her “_chère Mademoiselle Peterson_,” yet in spite of her protestations of dismay Jean was conscious of an impression that the Countess derived some kind of satisfaction from the imminence of her departure. She could not reconcile the contradiction, and it worried her a little. She believed--quite justly--that Madame de Varigny had conceived a real affection for her, and, as far as she herself was concerned, she had considerably revised her first impressions of the other, finding more to like in her than she had anticipated, noticeably a genuine warmth and fervour of nature, and a certain kind-hearted capacity for interesting herself in other people. And, liking her so much better than she had at first conceived possible, Jean resented the sudden recurrence of her original distrust produced by the suggestion of insincerity which she thought she detected in the Countess’s expressions of regret. On the face of it the thing seemed absurd. She could imagine no conceivable reason why her departure should give Madame de Varigny any particular cause for complacency, which only made the more perplexing her impression that this was the actual feeling underlying the latter’s cordial interest in her projected visit to England. On the morning of her departure, Jean’s mind was too preoccupied with the small details attendant upon starting off on a journey dwell upon the matter. But, as she shook bands with Madame de Varigny for the last time, the recollection surged over her afresh, and she was strongly conscious that beneath the other woman’s pleasant, “_Adieu, mademoiselle! Bon voyage!_” something stirred that was less pleasant--even inimical--just as some slimy and repulsive form of life may stir amid the ooze at the bottom of a sunlit stream. CHAPTER VIII--THE MAN FROM MONTAVAN