John Calverley had listened to this recital with great attention, and when Pauline ceased speaking, he said to her with a half-grave smile: "The remainder of your days, madam, is likely, I hope, to be a tolerably long period; for you are evidently quite a young woman. Now, with regard to your proposition, you yourself say it is unbusiness-like, and I must confess it strikes me as being so in the highest degree. You know nothing of me, beyond seeing my name as a subscriber to certain charities, or having heard it mentioned as that of a man who takes some interest in assisting foreigners in distress; and yet you offer to place in my hands what constitutes your entire fortune, and intrust me with the disposal of it. I really do not think," said John Calverley, hesitating, "I can possibly undertake--" "One moment, Mr. Calverley," said Pauline. "The responsibility of declining to take this money will be far greater than of accepting it; for if you decline to act for me, I will consult no one else; I will act on my own impulse, and shall probably either invest the sum in some swindling company, or squander and spend it." "You must not do that," said John promptly; "you must not think of doing that. Two thousand pounds is not a very large sum of money; but properly invested, a lady without encumbrance," said John, with a dim recollection of the formula of servants' advertisements, "might live very comfortably on the interest, more especially if she had no home to keep up." "But, monsieur, I must always have a home, a lodging, a something to live in," said Pauline with a shrug. "Yes, of course," said John Calverley, rather absently; for at that moment a notable plan had suggested itself to him, and he was revolving it in his mind. "Where are you living now, Madame Du Tertre?" "I have a lodging--a bed-room--in Poland-street," she replied. "Dear me," said John Calverley, in horrified amazement. "Poland-street? I know, of course; back of the Pantheon--very stuffy and grimy, children playing battledore and shuttlecock in the street, organ-men and fish-barrows, and all that kind of thing; not at all pleasant." "No," said Pauline, with a repetition of her shrug; "but beggars have no choice, as the proverb says." "Did it ever occur to you," said John nervously, "that you might become a companion to a lady--quite comfortable, you know, and well treated, made one of the family, in point of fact?" he added, again recurring to the advertisement formula. Pauline's eyes glistened at once, but her voice was quite calm as she said: "I have never thought of such a thing. I don't know whether I should like it. It would, of course, depend upon the family." "Of course," assented John. "I was thinking of-- Do you play the piano, Madame Du Tertre?" "O yes, sufficiently well." "Ah," said John unconsciously, "some of it does go a long way. Well, I was thinking that perhaps--" "Mrs. Calverley, sir," said Mr. Briscoe, throwing open the door.