She drove away, leaning back amongst the cushions with half closed eyes, as though tired. The country scenery with its pastoral landscape, its Watteau-like perfections, was wholly unseen. Her memory had travelled back, she was away amongst the days when the roar of life had been in her ears, when for a short while, indeed, the waves had seemed likely to break over her head. An unpleasant echo, this! No more than an echo--and yet! The thought of old Stephen Hurd lying in his grave suddenly chilled her. She shivered as she left the carriage, and instead of entering the house, crossed the lawn to where Gilbert Deyes was lounging. He struggled to his feet at her approach, but she waved him back again. "Sybarite," she murmured, glancing around at his arrangements for complete comfort. "You have sent Austin out alone." "Dear lady, I confess it," he answered. "What would you have? It is too fine an afternoon to kill anything." She sank into a chair by his side. A slight smile parted her lips as she glanced around. On a table by his side, a table drawn back into the shade of the cedar tree, were several vellum-bound volumes, a tall glass, and a crystal jug half full of some delicate amber beverage, mixed with fruit and ice, a box of cigarettes, an ivory paper-cutter, and a fan. "Your capacity for making yourself comfortable," she remarked, "amounts almost to genius." "Let it go at that," he answered. "I like the sound of the word." "I want you to go to Paris for me," she said abruptly. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked at her thoughtfully. Not a line of his face betrayed the least sign of surprise. "To-morrow?" he asked. "Yes!" "I can get up in time for the two-twenty," he remarked thoughtfully. "I wonder whether it will be too late for the Armenonville!" She laughed quietly. "You are a 'poseur,'" she declared. "Naturally," he admitted. "We all are, even when the audience consists of ourselves alone. I fancy I'm rather better than most, though." She nodded. "You won't mind admitting--to me--that you are surprised?" "Astonished," he said. "To descend to the commonplace, what on earth do you want me to go to Paris for?" "I will tell you," she answered. "Forget for a moment the Paris that you know, and remember the Paris of the tourist." "Painful," he answered; "but it is done." "The _Hôtel de Luxe_!" "I know it well." "There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who hang about the hall and the boulevard outside--guides they call themselves." "'Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,'" he quoted. "Yes; I know them." "There is, or was, one," she continued, "who goes by the name of Thomas Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an accent." "I should know the beast anywhere," he declared.