She stared at him wonderingly. A faint glimmer of hope shone in the tragic depths of her topaz eyes. The reddened lips parted a little. "Eh bien?" He felt the strain in her voice and hurried on, full of compassion. "It's like this. I've been left a villa--a wee place abroad near the sea. I stayed there for a few weeks before my return--and was bored to death! I don't want to shut it up and I have a dislike to letting it. It occurred to me to find some one, as a sort of caretaker," he paused, his eyes fixed on the grass at his feet. "It's in Italy, not far from Spezzia--a pretty place with lovely air and fairly gay in the Summer time--but in the Winter months----" he laughed--"about as lonely as the Pole. So that's what I am up against--to find someone I can trust to live there and keep it aired. There's an old woman who does odd jobs--I daresay she could cook a bit--and her son who gardens, cleans windows and all that--but it's not enough. I want some one--a different class--to keep an eye on the pair. But I warn you--it's awfully dull--but healthy--the air comes over the snows. Now as you're feeling a bit run down, would you like to try it?" He broke off sharply. "Fantine, my dear! Oh, you poor little soul!..." She was sobbing sharply, her head in her hands. The breeze rustled through the trees and far away, in wave on wave, came the noise of the traffic, London's voice, not unlike the swell of the sea. Beside him, cast up on the tide, this wreck and flotsam of life's storms, battered and broken, but still lit by the flickering lamp of the human soul. "Fantine--don't feel hurt, my dear. I mean what I say--it's give and take--fair play, I give you my word." She raised a streaming, haggard face. "You don't know ... oh, mon Dieu! Listen----" she caught him by the arm. "I tried to ruin you," she cried--"that last evening--at the flat!" "Nonsense!--it's all ... part of the game----" his voice was rough through sheer discomfort. "If you had, I deserved it, Fantine--a young ass--that's all right. I'd have ruined _you_ without a thought--in another way, but it's just as bad. There isn't a penny to choose between us. Besides, I _knew_--when I left you that night. I saw your husband come up the stairs--and--afterwards--I guessed the truth. You were driven to it--it wasn't your fault." He paused a moment, his face grim. "A jolly good lesson," he said slowly, "it taught me to be ... less of a fool. So don't let that worry you, but help me now--with this damned villa!" The very depth of his pity for her made him brusque and he ran on jerkily. "So that's settled. I want your answer. D'you think you could stand it? It's jolly dull--but with no pet dogs or flannel petticoats! Could a 'real lady' become a caretaker?" She nodded her head, unable to speak, shaken by a fit of coughing. A chilliness was in the air. McTaggart rose to his feet.