The Suspicions of Ermengarde By Maxwell Gray (Mary Gleed Tuttiett) Author of "The Silence of Dean Maitland," etc., etc. "Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn, Im dunklen Laub die gold Orangen glühn? Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht; Kennst du es wohl?" London John Long Norris Street, Haymarket [_All rights reserved_] First published in 1908 _WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ The Silence of Dean Maitland The Reproach of Annesley In The Heart of the Storm A Costly Freak London: Kegan Paul The Last Sentence Sweethearts and Friends The House of Hidden Treasure The World's Mercy, and other Tales The Forest Chapel, and other Poems Four-Leaved Clover Richard Rosny London: William Heinemann The Great Refusal An Innocent Impostor London: John Long Ribstone Pippins London and New York: Harper & Bros. Lays of the Dragon-Slayer London: Sands & Co. Contents CHAPTER I. THE LITTLE RIFT II. AN INNOCENT VERY MUCH ABROAD III. THE TRAIN DE LUXE IV. THE AZURE SHORE V. ON THE RIDGE VI. MOUNTAIN SUNSET VII. THE CONVENT STEPS VIII. THE CARNIVAL IX. THE CASINO X. THE CASINO GARDENS XI. KATZENJAMMER XII. M. ISIDORE'S HEARTACHE XIII. THE PUBLISHER'S PARCEL XIV. AT TURBIA XV. AN ITALIAN LESSON XVI. THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE XVII. THE PROMENADE DU MIDI XVIII. THE ONLY HOPE XIX. AN ACT OF JUSTICE XX. THE NECKLACE AGAIN XXI. CONNEXIONS BY MARRIAGE The Suspicions of Ermengarde Chapter I The Little Rift Fog of the colour known as pea-soup--in reality amber mixed with lemon-peel and delicately tinted with smut--pervaded the genial shades of Kensington Gardens and cast a halo of breathless romance over many a "long, unlovely street" and many a towering pile of crudely hideous flats in the regions round about. It sneaked down chimneys, stalked insolently through front doors, regardless of locks, curtains and screens; it wandered noiselessly about houses, penetrating even to my lady's chamber; it permeated cosy drawing-rooms and snug dining-rooms with gloom like that of an ancestral ghost, or an unforgettable sorrow, or--the haunting horror of unpaid bills. "Yes, _that_ is the true, the inevitable simile, the fitting word," Ermengarde said to herself with melancholy triumph, from her downy nest in the deep warm Chesterfield by the fire, "the haunting horror of unpaid bills. 'Haunting horror' is good. And it's not so much the unpaidness of the bills as the size of them--and the kind of them. The butcher's bill, for instance--how _enormous_--and yet Arthur takes it as coolly as the collection in church, or the waiter's tip, that just means a finger slipped into a waistcoat pocket and out again, without even looking. When one thinks of the lovely things one might buy with the butcher's quarterly bill and can't!"