"Do you fully understand that you would have to undertake Miss Reene's music also? She is my stepdaughter." "It would be a pleasure to me, madam. I am fond of music." Mr. Castlemaine came into the room again at this juncture. "What part of France have you lived in?" he asked. "Did I understand you to say in Paris?" Another necessary lie, or next door to one, for Charlotte Guise! Were she to say, "My native province is that of the Dauphiné, and I have lived near Gap," it might open their eyes to suspicion at once. She swallowed down a cough that rose, partly choking her. "Not quite in Paris, sir. A little beyond it." "And--pardon me--could you give references?" Madame Guise looked up helplessly. The colour rose in her face; for the fear of losing the appointment became very present to her. "I know not how. I never was a governess before; and in that respect no one could speak for me. I am of respectable family: my father was a rentier, and much considered. For myself, I am of discreet conduct and manners,--surely you cannot doubt it," she added, the tears of emotion rising to her eyes, as she looked at them. They looked back in return: Mr. Castlemaine thinking what a nice, ladylike, earnest woman she was, one he could take on trust; Mrs. Castlemaine, entirely seduced by the prospect of the pure French for Flora, eagerly wanting to ratify the bargain. Madame Guise mistook the silence, supposing they were hesitating. "I could have a letter written to you from Paris," she said. "I possess a friend there, who will, I am sure, satisfy you that I am of good conduct and family. Would there be more than this required?" "Not any more, it would be quite sufficient," Mrs. Castlemaine hastened to say with emphasis. And, without waiting for the promised letter--which, as she observed could come later--she engaged the governess on the spot. Mr. Castlemaine attended Madame Guise to the door: and never a suspicion crossed him that she was--who she was. How should it? How was he likely to connect this lady-traveller--detained at the place by accident, so shy in manner, so evidently distressed for her child--with the unfortunate Anthony, lost since that fatal February night? Madame Guise went out from the interview. In some respects it had not been satisfactory: or, rather, not in accordance with her ante-impressions. She had gone to it picturing Mr. Castlemaine as some great monster of iniquity, some crafty, cruel, sinister man, from whom the world might shrink. She found him a very good-looking, pleasing, and polished gentleman, with a high-bred air, a kind and apparently sincere manner, and with the wonderful face-resemblance to his brother Basil and to her own poor husband. How had it been possible, she asked herself, for so apparently correct a man to commit that most dreadful crime, and still be what he was? How wickedly deceitful some great criminals were!