Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these two men parted amidst the sylvan peace of English meadow on that summer morning. They belonged to two different stations in life almost as far apart as two social stations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense of the word, friends; they were merely partners, intensely awake, as partners usually are, to each other's shortcomings. The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from the moment that he raised his hat and turned. A few moments later his thoughts were evidently far away. “The son of Vellacott,” he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neat silver case. “How strange! And yet I am sorry. He might have done something in the world. That article was clever--very clever--curse it! He cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son of a man like Vellacott.” It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomte entered the dining-room by the open window. Only Hilda was there, and she was busy with the old leather post-bag. Among the letters there were several newspapers, and the Vicomte d'Audierne's expression underwent a slight change on perceiving them. His thin, mobile lips were closely pressed, and his chin--a very short one--was thrust forward. Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes assumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannot be described in English, for it seemed to change their colour. In his country it would have been called _glauque_. “Ah, Hilda!” he said, approaching slowly, “do I see newspapers? I love a newspaper!” She handed him the _Times_ enveloped in a yellow wrapper, upon which was printed her brother's name and address. “Ah,” he said lightly, “the _Times_--estimable, but just a trifle opaque. Is that all?” His eyes were fixed upon two packets she held in her hand. “These are Mr. Bodery's,” she replied, looking at him with some concentration. “And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read?” asked the Frenchman, holding out his hand. She hesitated for a moment. His position with regard to her was singular, his ascendency over her had never been tried. It was an unknown quantity; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his own power. “Let me look, little girl,” he said quietly in French. She handed him the newspapers, still watching his face. “The _Beacon_,” he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, “a weekly journal.” He threw the papers down and returned to the _Times_, which he unfolded. “Tell me, Hilda,” he said, “is Mr. Bodery connected with this weekly journal, the _Beacon?_” Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of the post-bag on a nail beside the fireplace. “Yes,” she replied, without looking round. “Is he the editor?” “Yes.” The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the _Times_ carelessly. “Ah!” he muttered, “the phylloxera has appeared again.” For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then he spoke again.