"I've been abroad," he explained lamely, "for two years. I'm off to-morrow to shoot in Scotland. London's beastly. Even my Club's shut against me!" Fantine smiled, then she sighed. "Lucky Pierrot!" She sank down on the nearest chair and with a gesture invited him to the one beside it. "You will like that--to shoot, hein?" Again a fit of coughing seized her. She looked thin, McTaggart thought. He could not harden his heart against her, with that shadow of death that seemed to hang like a cloud over her old brilliancy. "How's the world been treating you?" He spoke gently. It seemed to him a page torn from a past life, this unexpected meeting with her; the whole hateful episode a story skimmed through and forgotten. "The world, mon cher?"--she shrugged her shoulders, "Why, mon Dieu--as it always treats those whose luck has turned against them!" She gave a light and mocking laugh. "I'm sorry." He paused. "Would you care to tell me?" She gave him a quick grateful glance. Then with a gesture, unconsciously tinged with a touch of drama, threw back her veil. McTaggart stared, taken aback. "Ah! ... you see?" she nodded her head. "I am getting old"--her voice shook--"and so tired..." the painted lips twisted themselves into a smile more pitiful than any tears in the thin but still piquante face. "It's the life, mon cher--this ... gay life! I have burnt the candle in the middle. No!--you say 'at both wicks'"--her words ended in a cough. "You've got a frightful cold, Fantine. Do you think it's prudent sitting here?" "Yes--the fresh air does me good--and it can't hurt me ... now, Pierrot. It's not a cold--it's my chest. I had pneumonia in the Spring and the wet season completed the trouble. The doctor says I ought to live in a dry climate--but," she laughed--"I have to earn the money first--and London is the easiest place." A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart saw that her neat dress was shabby, that the hat she wore owed its smartness to the veil and the way it was posed at the right angle. But, faithful to her ancient creed, her boots and gloves were immaculate, her dark hair glossy and waved, and her face delicately painted. Yet something was gone: the note of youth, the joyous, half-defiant charm. This was a woman, middle-aged, broken in health but still proud. "Per'aps you did not learn my trouble? No?"--she glanced up at him--"The flat was raided by the police. I had to pay a heavy fine. It was not mine to keep or let; it belonged to a certain ... Monsieur. But in my name, you understan'? I to take all the risk. And when it failed he vanished--pouf!" she threw out her hands mockingly--"into thin air, as you say. And I was left ... dans le potage! "It was not soup you could drink, Pierrot, like Monsieur Auguste's 'pot-au-feu'--and ... one eats to live--or at least those do who can't afford to live to eat! An' so I had to start again, with a very slim capital--the furniture ... a few jewels..."