She looked tired, I thought, but fascinating as ever. We lunched together in the restaurant, and had a long conversation. She told me an amusing story of the American Lady Luffton, whom she had seen the day before. An expected family event had prevented her from gracing the Coronation. "My dear"--and Lady Tilchester imitated her voice exactly--"it is a dispensation of Providence that circumstances did not permit me to attend this ceremony. You Englishwomen would have gone anyhow; but we Americans are different. But, I say, it is a dispensation of Providence, as I am considerably contented with Luffy and my position up to the present time. But if I had gotten there, stuffed behind with the baronesses, and had seen those duchesses marching along with their strawberry-leaves ahead of me, I kinder think I should have had a fit of dyspepsia right there in the Abbey." After lunch we went up to the sitting-room. I meant to stay for half an hour before going back to Versailles. Telegrams called Lady Tilchester away for a little. She is always so full of business. "I shall send Muriel to entertain you while I answer these," she said. "I brought her over with me to have a glimpse of Paris, too." In a few moments the sound of feet running down the passage caused me to turn round as the door opened and a slender child of ten or eleven entered the room. She was facing the light. I happened to be standing with my back to the window. "How do you do?" she said, sweetly, and put out her little hand. "Mother says I may come and talk to you." There are some moments in life too anguishing for words! Her face is the face of Lady Tilchester, but her eyes--her eyes are grayish-greeny-blue, with black edges, and that look like a cat's, that can see in the dark. Now I know whom her photograph reminded me of. There can be only one other pair of such eyes in the world. I don't remember what I said. Something kind and _banal_. Then I invented an excuse to go away. "Give my best love to your mother, dear," I said, "and say I must not stop another moment. I have remembered an important appointment with the dressmaker, and I must fly!" She put up her _mignonne_ oval face to kiss me. "I have heard so much of you," she said. "I wanted so to see you. I wish you could have stayed." And so we kissed and parted. When I got into the automobile outside, I felt as if I were going to faint for a few awful moments. Everything was clear to me now! I remembered the little photograph on his mantel-piece, his sudden changing of the conversation, a number of small things unnoticed at the time. How had I been so ridiculously blind? It was because she seemed so great and noble, and utterly apart from all these things. Had it been Babykins or Lady Grenellen, or any other woman, this discovery would have made no difference to me. I did not doubt that Antony loved me, and me only, now. He had been "not wearyingly faithful," like the rest of his world, that was all.