“Well, John,” grunted Ascott, turning stiffly and facing the man, “I am pleased to think it will go on so for a long time; I’ve had enough of the Princess Sonia Danidoff, she’s an ungrateful coquette. God knows how ready I was to love her, how gladly I would have devoted my life to her service, but she is crazy, crazy for another man, ... so much the worse for me! But there, that’s her look out ...” John looked his approval. “Quite right, sir; these great ladies always give more trouble than they’re worth, and if I might offer you a piece of advice, sir ...” “Well, out with it.” “Well, it would be just to take for mistress one of those pretty actresses there’s so many of in Paris and who would ask nothing better, or else get to know a nice, good little girl, a gentle and modest young thing who would love you tenderly ...” Ascott burst into a loud laugh. “’Pon my word, John, you’re in a prophetic vein to-day, ha, ha! Who tells you I’m not going to follow your advice to the letter?” “Why, sir, do you know some young girl in society?” “In society, h’m! not high society certainly ... but one that is honest and peaceable and sincere; yes, perhaps I do, and I’m beginning to think even I’m pretty deep in love.” John rubbed his hands in naïve satisfaction; he ventured: “You must tell me about it, sir.” But next minute Ascott checked himself and his face resumed a stern look full of haughty reserve. He was ready to go. “John, hand me my hat.”—“Very good, Sir.”—“My stick.”—“Here it is, sir!” “John, I shall not be back perhaps till late at night—perhaps not at all; no need to sit up for me.” “Very good, sir ... good-night, sir!” “Good-night, John.” * * * * * Seated at the back of the omnibus office in the Place de la Bastille, two persons were conversing in low voices; they were Père Moche, wearing, as always, his everlasting top hat with the mangy nap and draped solemnly in his long frock-coat, and little Nini Guinon, modestly clad in a navy blue skirt barely reaching to the ankles and a straw hat trimmed with wild flowers. To look at the pair you would have taken them for people of the small shop-keeper class—the father a worthy business employé, the daughter a school-girl, hardly out of the Convent. No one would ever have dreamt he had before him the old usurer of the Rue Saint-Fargeau, comrade and accomplice of the worst apaches of the district, and least of all that the modest maiden he saw there was a vulgar street-walker, a common murderer’s mistress, seduced and ruined long ago, for all her tender years. Père Moche was grumbling sourly: “The thing’s disgusting. Since they did away with the _correspondance_ tickets, the omnibus offices are getting fewer and fewer and less and less used. I had the devil’s own job to find just this one here to arrange to meet you at.”