The benefactor of his species in the meantime, unconscious of the veneration he inspired, took his place at a small solitary table in the background, silent and, after the first few moments of curiosity his presence excited, unnoticed, and presumably absorbed in schemes for the amelioration of mankind. With the _déjeuner_ he vanished, but was again discovered at his secluded table at dinner, just as if he had never moved, and so for several days. Rumour spoke of a motor-car waiting daily at the foot of the ridge, and bearing him away in a cloud of dust and unpleasant smell. M. Bontemps hinted that he came up to Les Oliviers for a few days' rest, much to Mrs. Allonby's surprise. She had had no idea that the practice of beneficence was so fatiguing. People often came up to the little house on the ridge for rest and quiet, out of the closer air of the town, out of the racket and turmoil of the huge and hideous barrack hotels, that desolated the face of the country for many a mile round, even drawing great splotches of aggressive ugliness across the lovely wooded slopes of the mountains, so that no eye could possibly escape the sight of them. And after a brief sojourn, refreshed and soothed to the point of boredom, they returned with renewed zest to the horrors of civilization and excessive wealth in the barracks. Les Oliviers itself was certainly not beautiful, and it was visible from far, but its humble position behind and beneath the monastery, its moderate size and similarity to the little green-shuttered houses dotted among vineyards and olive-gardens, with its absence of all pretence and meretricious ornament, redeemed it from vulgarity, and put its want of comeliness out of mind. So at least Mrs. Allonby told M. Isidore, who acknowledged the compliment with a bow, and observed with a sigh of deepest melancholy that it was the home of his heart's desire. A cloud had for some days past hung over the habitual gaiety of the cheery little man, a cloud neither black with thunder nor leaden with low-hanging rain, but rather one of those pearly transparencies that flutter about sunset skies, catching and transmuting every glorious glow of crimson and gold and purple. He was obliging, courteous, full of wit and gaiety, as ever; but interspersed his sallies with deep-drawn sighs, emotional exclamations, and those little, half-humorous groans, that are the peculiar characteristic of the lively Gaul. He had even discussed--with Mrs. Allonby--the frequency and inevitableness of self-destruction as a result of feminine scorn and variableness, and of blighted hopes, together with the best way of effecting it. For this, he had been gently, very gently, rebuked, and wisely and kindly counselled, and recommended to give back scorn for scorn. "What care I how fair she be?" etc.