We continued talking till two o’clock in the morning, and she told me all about the suit she had with Sir Frederick Fermer. He maintained that the house she had built at a cost of ten thousand guineas belonged to him as he had furnished the money. In equity he was right, but according to English law wrong, for it was she who had paid the workmen, the contractors, and the architect; it was she that had given and received receipts, and signed all documents. The house, therefore, belonged to her, and Fermer admitted as much; but he claimed the sum he had furnished, and here was the kernel of the whole case, for she had defied him to produce a single acknowledgment of money received. “I confess,” said this honest woman, “that you have often given me a thousand pounds at a time, but that was a friendly gift, and nothing to be wondered at in a rich Englishman, considering that we were lovers and lived together.” She had won her suit four times over in two years, but Fermer took advantage of the intricacies of English law to appeal again and again, and now he had gone to the House of Lords, the appeal to which might last fifteen years. “This suit,” said the honest lady, “dishonours Fermer.” “I should think it did, but you surely don’t think it honours you.” “Certainly I do.” “I don’t quite understand how you make that out.” “I will explain it all to you.” “We will talk it over again.” In the three hours for which we talked together this woman did not once ask me how I was, whether I was comfortable, how long I intended to stay in London, or whether I had made much money. In short she made no enquiries what ever about me, only saying with a smile, but not heedlessly,-- “I never have a penny to spare.” Her receipts amounted to more than twenty-four thousand pounds per annum, but her expenses were enormous and she had debts. I avenged myself on her indifference by not saying a word about myself. I was dresssed simply but neatly, and had not any jewellery or diamonds about my person. I went to bed annoyed with her, but glad to have discovered the badness of her heart. In spite of my longing to see my daughter I determined not to take any steps to meet her till the ensuing Sunday, when I was invited to dinner. Early next morning I told Clairmont to pull all my goods and chattels in a carriage, and when all was ready I went to take leave of young Cornelis, telling him I was going to live in Pall Mall, and leaving him my address. “You are not going to stay with me, then?” said he. “No, your mother doesn’t know how to welcome or to treat me.” “I think you are right. I shall go back to Paris.” “Don’t do anything so silly. Remember that here you are at home, and that in Paris you might not find a roof to shelter you. Farewell; I shall see you on Sunday.”