"Ah, well, Charles," continued Ernest, "we ought to rejoice in the warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the poor than cold--the winter. Let us not complain." "I do not; but I see precious few poor about now: they all seem to be rejoicing, without needing any assistance therein from us. Look at that fine chariot." "At Madam Finette's door?" "Yes." "I think I recognise the driver--Tom, from Mrs. Wimple's," said Mowbray calmly. "Mrs. Wimple--who is she?" "A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest disappointments," said Mowbray with a shadowed brow; "let us not speak of that!" "Of what?" "You do not understand?" "I? Of course not." "It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved, how despicable I was," said Mowbray with a cruel tremor of his pale lip. "Oh--yes--pardon me," Hoffland said; and turning aside his head, he murmured, "Men--men! how blind you are! yes, high-gravel blind!" and looking again at Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become calm again. "I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles from this place," he said calmly; "go in with me a moment, Charles." Hoffland drew back. "No," he said; "I believe--I have--I think I'd rather not." "I will detain you but a moment." Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of Madam Finette's emporium; and the consequence was that the young gentleman retreated three steps. "I don't think I have time," he said laughing; "but I'll wait for you here: the sun is warm, but I can easily protect my face by holding my handkerchief to it." And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to speak, of the shop, Hoffland placed himself as much out of view as possible, and waited. Spite of the fact that the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot which he occupied, the white handkerchief was still used as a shade. Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette. But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with magnificent silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she was unrolling, folding up, drawing out, and chattering about, as fast as her small hands and agile tongue would permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied by her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of making up her mind what colors of velvet and satin ribbon she should select. The lady was young and smiling--cheerful and graceful. When she laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece overhead was drowned, and died away; when she smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of its brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant and melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos trying to recall his dream, or like Narcissus fading into shadow. His costume resembled a variegated Dutch tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and whispered sadly, and looked at the lady. The lady was called Belle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca. The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques. "I think that would suit you," sighed Jacques.