Greatly daring, she followed him. It was a rapturous escapade--the first adventure of her life. She turned her comely face to him and he saw smiles round her lips and laughter in her eyes. Aristide, worker of miracles, strutted by her side choke-full of vanity. They wandered through the picturesque streets of the old town with the gaiety of truant children, peeping through iron gateways into old courtyards, venturing their heads into the murk of black stairways, talking (on the part of Aristide) with mothers who nursed chuckling babes on their doorsteps, crossing the thresholds, hitherto taboo, of churches, and meeting the mystery of coloured glass and shadows and the heavy smell of incense. Her hand was on his arm when they entered the flagged courtyard of an ancient palace, a stately medley of the centuries, with wrought ironwork in the balconies, tourelles, oriels, exquisite Renaissance ornaments on architraves, and a great central Gothic doorway, with great window-openings above, through which was visible the stone staircase of honour leading to the upper floors. In a corner stood a mediæval well, the sides curiously carved. One side of the courtyard blazed in sunshine, the other lay cool and grey in shadow. Not a human form or voice troubled the serenity of the spot. On a stone bench against the shady wall Aristide and Mrs. Ducksmith sat down to rest. "_Voilà!_" said Aristide. "Here one can suck in all the past like an omelette. They had the feeling for beauty, those old fellows." "I have wasted twenty years of my life," said Mrs. Ducksmith, with a sigh. "Why didn't I meet someone like you when I was young? Ah, you don't know what my life has been, Mr. Pujol." "Why not Aristide when we are alone? Why not, Henriette?" He too had the sense of adventure, and his eyes were more than usually compelling and his voice more seductive. For some reason or other, undivined by Aristide--over-excitement of nerves, perhaps--she burst into tears. "_Henriette! Henriette, ne pleurez pas._" His arm crept round her--he knew not how; her head sank on his shoulder, she knew not why--faithlessness to her lord was as far from her thoughts as murder or arson; but for one poor little moment in a lifetime it is good to weep on someone's shoulder and to have someone's sympathetic arm around one's waist. "_Pauvre petite femme!_ And is it love she is pining for?" She sobbed; he lifted her chin with his free hand--and what less could mortal apostle do?--he kissed her on her wet cheek. A bellow like that of an angry bull caused them to start asunder. They looked up, and there was Mr. Ducksmith within a few yards of them, his face aflame, his rabbit's eyes on fire with rage. He advanced, shook his fists in their faces. "I've caught you! At last, after twenty years, I've caught you!" "Monsieur," cried Aristide, starting up, "allow me to explain."