I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse. Consternation was writ large on her face, and suspicion besides. She gave her daughter a quick sidelong glance, and a frown gathered on her brow. So far as I heard, however, she attempted no remonstrance. She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made for the door. I sprang up and opened it; she walked out. Marie drew a chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet--for the summer night had turned chilly. I finished my supper. The clock struck half-past eleven. I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my programme. Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round. "You must not," said she, "let me prevent you having your cigarette. I should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can't sleep so early, and upstairs the fire is not lighted." I thanked her and approached the fire. She was gazing into it meditatively. Presently she looked up. "Smoke, sir," she said imperiously but languidly. I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty. "You have passed the day here?" she asked, gazing again into the fire. "In this neighborhood," said I, with discreet vagueness. "You have been able to pass the time?" "Oh, certainly!" That had not been my difficulty. "There is, of course," she said wearily, "Mont St. Michel. But can you imagine anyone living in such a country?" "Unless Fate set one here--" I began. "I suppose that's it," she interrupted. "You are going to make a stay here?" "I am," she answered slowly, "on my way to--I don't know where." I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real. With another upward glance, she said: "My name is Marie Delhasse." "It is a well-known name," said I with a bow. "You have heard of me?" "Yes." "What?" she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me. "That you are a great singer," I answered simply. "Ah, I'm not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe. What about me?" Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before. "Nothing," said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a question. She glanced at me for an instant. I threw my eyes up to the ceiling. "It is false!" she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her composure. The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long silence. The last act of the day's comedy seemed set for a more serious scene. "Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?" I said at last, giving utterance to the thought that puzzled me. "Whom should I ask? And I like your face--no, not because it is handsome. You are English, sir?" "Yes, I am English. My name is Gilbert Aycon." "Aycon--Aycon! It is a little difficult to say it as you say it."