“No, my dear,” he rejoined, looking very much puzzled. “But I can easily send out and borrow one.” We returned to the villa. The servant was sent at once to the nearest stationer’s to borrow a Directory. She returned with the book just as we sat down to dinner. Searching for the Major’s name under the letter F, I was startled by a new discovery. “Benjamin!” I said. “This is a strange coincidence. Look here!” He looked where I pointed. Major Fitz-David’s address was Number Sixteen Vivian Place--the very house which I had seen my husband leaving as we passed in the carriage! CHAPTER VII. ON THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. “YES,” said Benjamin. “It _is_ a coincidence certainly. Still--” He stopped and looked at me. He seemed a little doubtful how I might receive what he had it in his mind to say to me next. “Go on,” I said. “Still, my dear, I see nothing suspicious in what has happened,” he resumed. “To my mind it is quite natural that your husband, being in London, should pay a visit to one of his friends. And it’s equally natural that we should pass through Vivian Place on our way back here. This seems to be the reasonable view. What do _you_ say?” “I have told you already that my mind is in a bad way about Eustace,” I answered. “_I_ say there is some motive at the bottom of his visit to Major Fitz-David. It is not an ordinary call. I am firmly convinced it is not an ordinary call!” “Suppose we get on with our dinner?” said Benjamin, resignedly. “Here is a loin of mutton, my dear--an ordinary loin of mutton. Is there anything suspicious in _that?_ Very well, then. Show me you have confidence in the mutton; please eat. There’s the wine, again. No mystery, Valeria, in that claret--I’ll take my oath it’s nothing but innocent juice of the grape. If we can’t believe in anything else, let’s believe in juice of the grape. Your good health, my dear.” I adapted myself to the old man’s genial humor as readily as I could. We ate and we drank, and we talked of by-gone days. For a little while I was almost happy in the company of my fatherly old friend. Why was I not old too? Why had I not done with love, with its certain miseries, its transient delights, its cruel losses, its bitterly doubtful gains? The last autumn flowers in the window basked brightly in the last of the autumn sunlight. Benjamin’s little dog digested his dinner in perfect comfort on the hearth. The parrot in the next house screeched his vocal accomplishments cheerfully. I don’t doubt that it is a great privilege to be a human being. But may it not be the happier destiny to be an animal or a plant? The brief respite was soon over; all my anxieties came back. I was once more a doubting, discontented, depressed creature when I rose to say good-by. “Promise, my dear, you will do nothing rash,” said Benjamin, as he opened the door for me. “Is it rash to go to Major Fitz-David?” I asked.