“Oh, generous!” she said, with a little movement of impatience, which was genuine. “This is no question of generosity; I want the girl to go and be a singer, and I don’t want her to go alone. Now, I’ve found out a way for her to go that will be agreeable to her and to me, and, I take for granted, to the man.” She looked at Essex with a smile that almost said she knew him to be that favored person. “Of course,” she continued, “it would be better for him to get some work. It’s bad for man or woman to be idle. If he knows how to write, it would be an easy matter to make him Paris correspondent of _The Trumpet_. It was my husband’s intention to have a correspondent, and he had some idea of offering it to Mrs. Willers. But it’s not the work for her, nor she the woman for it. It ought to be a man, and a man that’s conversant with the country and the language. There’ll be a good salary to go with it. Win was talking about it only the other evening.” “What a showering of good fortune on one person,” said Essex--“a position ready-made, a small fortune and a beautiful wife! He must be a favorite of the gods.” “You can call it what you like, Mr. Essex,” said Bessie. “It’s been my experience that the gods take for their favorites men and women who’ve got some hustle. Everybody has a chance some time or other. Miss Moreau and her young man have theirs now.” She rose to her feet, for at that moment, Pussy Thurston appeared in the doorway to say good night. The pretty creature had cast more than one covertly admiring look at Essex, during the dinner, and now, as she held out her hand to him in farewell, she said after the informal Western fashion: “Won’t you come to see me, Mr. Essex? I’m always at home on Sunday afternoon. If you’re bashful, Win will bring you. He comes sometimes when he’s got nowhere else in the world to go to.” Win, who was just behind her, expressed his willingness to act as escort, and laughing and jesting, the party passed through the doorway into the drawing-room. The little fires were burning low. By the light of one, Maud and Count de Lamolle were looking at a book of photographs of Swiss views. The count’s expression was enigmatic, and as Bessie approached them she heard Maud say: “Oh, that’s a mountain. What’s the name of it, now? I can’t remember. It’s very high and pointed, and people are always climbing it and falling into holes.” “The Matterhorn, perhaps,” suggested the count, politely. To which Maud gave a relieved assent. Her words were commonplace enough, but there was a quality of light-heartedness, of suppressed elation, in her voice, that her mother’s quick ear instantly caught. As the girl looked up at their approaching figures her face showed the same newly-acquired sparkle that was almost joyous. It had, in fact, been a critical evening for Maud, and so miserable did she feel her situation to be, that she had taken her courage in both hands and struck one desperate blow for freedom.