‘Do not be afraid,’ he continues, reassuringly, but keeping at a respectful distance from her. ‘My request is for your good. It is this--that you promise me to remain quietly here for an hour or two; say nothing to any one, and not to make arrangements about the journey to-morrow: all that shall be done for you. At the end of two hours, say, I will return. I will bring with me the respectable lady I have mentioned--and then, with my Madeline’s permission, I will make my adieux.’ ‘Make your adieux?--ah, M’sieur, I am so sorry for you----’ ‘Do not talk of me! I shall find another appointment. You will give the promise which I ask of you?’ ‘Yes.’ He takes her hand, bends over it, and kisses it--and leaves the girl alone. For a time Madeline stands quite still, stupefied by the very intensity of her relief. She rests her elbow on the mantelpiece, drops her cheeks upon her hands, and fixes her eyes upon the windows, as if to watch the slowly gathering gloom. She feels no self-pity; on the events which will probably transpire on the morrow her imagination refuses to dwell; she can think only of M’sieur Belleisle--of his goodness, his self-sacrifice, his devotion. During the whole time of their acquaintance Madeline has never thought so highly of her tutor as she does at this moment--when she is preparing, as she thinks, to plunge him into ruin. Her meditations having reached this point are interrupted. The door of the _salle à manger_ opens, and the Englishman re-enters the room. He is dressed for travelling; he looks around as if searching for something, then he paused before the girl. ‘I am just on the point of starting.’ he says abruptly; and Madeline, after puzzling her brain for a suitable reply, says-- ‘It is a fine night for travelling--I wish you a pleasant journey, M’sieur.’ He pauses, and for a moment there is blank silence; then he returned to the old question-- ‘You are sure,’ he says, ‘quite sure, that I can do nothing for you?’ And Madeline, feeling that since her last interview with Monsieur Belleisle her mantle of shame has fallen from her, gives such a decided negative that her companion goes. How dark it is growing! and, with the coming on of night, how the girl’s spirits sink! She lights the gas, and looks at her watch. Half an hour only has passed since Monsieur Belleisle left her; some time, must yet elapse before he returns. Meanwhile, what can she do to make the time hang less heavily on her hands? She resolves to write letters, and, having got the waiter to supply her with pens, ink, and paper, sits down to concoct an epistle to Mr. White.