"Engage her." And with a _ban soir_ this sudden arbiter of my destiny vanished. Madame Beck possessed high administrative powers. She ruled a hundred and twenty pupils, four teachers, eight masters, six servants and three children, and managed the pupils' parents and friends to perfection, without apparent effort. "Surveillance," "espionage"--these were the watchwords of her system. She knew what honesty was, and liked it--when it did not obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and interest. Wise, firm, faithless, secret, crafty, passionless, watchful and inscrutable--withal perfectly decorous--what more could be desired? Not a soul in all Madame Beck's house, from the scullion to the directress herself, but was above being ashamed of a lie; they thought nothing of it. Here Miss Ginevra Fanshawe was a thriving pupil. She had a considerable range of acquaintances outside the school, for Mrs. Cholmondeley, her chaperon, a gay, fashionable lady, took her to evening parties at the houses of her acquaintances. Soon I discovered by hints that ardent admiration, perhaps genuine love, was at the command of this pretty and charming, but by no means refined, girl. She called her suitor "Isidore," and bragged about the vehemence of his attachment. I asked her if she loved him in return. "He is handsome; he loves me to distraction; and so I am amused," was the reply. "But if he loves you, and it comes to nothing in the end, he will be miserable." "Of course he will break his heart. I should be disappointed if he didn't." "Do try to get a clear idea of the state of your own mind," I said, "for to me it really seems as chaotic as a rag-bag." "It is something in this fashion. He thinks far more of me than I find it convenient to be, while I am more at ease with you, you old cross- patch, you who know me to be coquettish and ignorant and fickle." "You love M. Isidore far more than you think or will avow." "No. I danced with a young officer the other night whom I love a thousand times more than he. Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. _Vive les joies et les plaisirs_!" It was as English teacher that I was engaged at Madame Beck's school, but the annual fête brought me into prominence in another capacity. The programme included a dramatic performance, with pupils and teachers for actors, and this was given under the superintendence of M. Paul Emanuel. I was dressed a couple of hours before anyone else, and reading in my classroom, the door was flung open, and in came M. Paul with a burst of execrable jargon: "Mees, play you must; I am planted here." "What can I do for you?" I inquired. "Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude. Let us thrust to the wall all reluctance." What did the little man mean?