“I’ve no doubt it’s a pity, Mrs. Willers. But there are so many things and people it’s a pity I don’t know, that if I came to think it over I’d probably fall into a state of melancholia. Also, let me assure you, that I haven’t the least intention of trying to separate Mrs. Moreau and her daughter. What I’m just now bothered about is the fact that this lady is hardly of sufficient worldly experience, and certainly has not sufficient strength to take care of the girl in a strange country.” “Well, no,” said Mrs. Willers with slow reluctance, “it would be the other way round, the girl would be taking care of her.” “That’s exactly what I thought. The only way out of it will be to send some one with them. A woman who could take care of them both, chaperone the daughter and look after the mother.” There was a silence. Mrs. Willers began to understand why Mr. Shackleton had walked down to _The Trumpet_ office with her. The walk was over, for they were at the office door, and the conversation had reached the point to which he had evidently intended to bring it before they parted. As they turned into the arched doorway and began the ascent of the stairs, Mrs. Willers replied: “I think that would be a very good idea, Mr. Shackleton. That is, if you can find the right woman.” “Oh, I’ve got her now,” he answered, giving her a quick, side-long glance. “I think it would be a good arrangement for all parties. _The Trumpet_ wants a Paris correspondent.” The door leading into the press-rooms opened off the landing they had reached, and he turned into this with a word of farewell, and a hand lifted to his hat brim. Mrs. Willers continued the ascent alone. As she mounted upward she said to herself: “The best thing for me to do is to get a French phrase book on the way home this evening, and begin studying: ‘Have you the green pantaloons of the miller’s mother?’” The elation of his mood was still with Shackleton when, two hours later, he alighted from the carriage at the steps of his country house. He went upstairs to his own rooms with a buoyant tread. In his library, with the windows thrown open to the soft, scented air, he sat smoking and thinking. The October dusk was closing in, when he heard the wheels of a carriage on the drive and the sound of voices. His women-folk with the second of the Thurston girls--the one guest the house now contained--were returning from the afternoon round of visits that was the main diversion of their life during the summer months, and swept the country houses from Redwood City to Menlo Park.