"O, if you had but known her, I should understand your desire to avenge her death. She was so lovely. To know her was to adore her. Even a soured old maid such as I could but yield to her charm. She was as loving as she was lovable; a clinging disposition, a poetical nature. Her life was not blameless, perhaps--who knows? We will not scrutinise too closely. She was as different from those harpies whom one hears of in Paris as a wild rose in the hedge is different from a jewel that has gone the round of every Mont-de-Piété in the city. Her heart was pure as the heart of a child. She had no ambition but to love and to be loved. The man who absorbed her life for a long time, whose hand perhaps slew her, was rich, lavish. He would have loaded her with gifts if she had let him, he would have taken her off the stage and allowed her to play the fine lady; but to the last she preserved the same modest ideas--generous to others, careless of herself." "Did you ever see the man who called himself Georges?" "Never. He was a man of curious habits. He loved the night better than the day. Nothing delighted him more than a moonlight drive in the Bois after midnight, a supper at the Cascade. He patronised the restaurants that keep open half the night. Marie and he used to sup together at the Café de Paris, sometimes with one or two chosen friends, but much more often alone. I was not Madame Lemarque's partner at that time; but I occupied a room in the roof of this house, and I used to work by the day for Madame and for Marie. I have spent many days working for her in the Rue de Lafitte. I made all her gowns, and I was proud that she should challenge comparison with actresses who squandered their thousands upon such impostors as Spricht and Van Klopen. Imagine, Monsieur, a man--a stern rugged nature which can have no true feeling for the beauty of woman's dress--a being of angles and hard lines--a creature without grace or _flou_. No wonder that square shoulders and pointed elbows have come into fashion since men have dictated the dress of women!" Mademoiselle had mounted her hobby, and was riding furiously. "Doubtless it is a mistake in art, and one that must be discovered before long," said Heathcote soothingly. "But tell me, Mademoiselle, in all your visits to the Rue de Lafitte, did you never encounter Georges?" "Never." "Strange! And did your friend Mademoiselle Prévol talk much of this Monsieur Georges?"