A little later Quixtus met the spotless flower of womanhood whom he had so grievously insulted. She greeted him with both hands outstretched. Without him Paris had been a desert. Why had he not sent her the smallest, tiniest line of news? Ah! she understood. It had been a sojourn of pain. Never mind. Paris, she hoped, would prove to be an anodyne. Only if she would administer it in the right doses; said Quixtus gallantly. Dressed with exquisite demureness, she found favour in his sight. He realised with a throb of thanksgiving that henceforward he could meet her on equal terms—as an honourable gentleman—no grotesque devilry haunting the back of his mind and clouding the serenity of their intercourse. “Tell me what you have been doing with yourself,” she said, drawing him to a seat. The little air of intimacy and ownership so delicately assumed, captivated the remorseful man. He had not realised the charm that awaited him in Paris. He touched lightly on Marseilles happenings, spoke of his guardianship, of Sheila, of her clinging, feminine ways, drew a smiling picture of his terror when Clementina had first left him alone with the child. Mrs. Fontaine laughed sympathetically at the tale, and then, with a touch of tenderness in her voice that perhaps was not deliberate, said: “In spite of the worries, you have benefited by the change. You have come back a different man.” “In what way?” “I can’t define it.” “Try.” A quick glance met earnest questioning in his eyes. She looked down and daintily plucked at the sunshade across her lap. “I should say you had come back more human.” Quixtus’s eyelids flickered. Clementina had used the same word. Was there then an obvious transformation from Quixtus _furens_ to Quixtus sane? He remembered the child’s kiss. “Perhaps it’s my new responsibilities,” he said with a smile. “I should so much like to see her. I wonder if I ever shall,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “She is coming here to lunch with Miss Wing,” replied Quixtus, eager now that his good friends should know and appreciate each other. “Won’t Lady Louisa and yourself join us?” “Delighted,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “Miss Clementina Wing is quite a character. I should like to see more of her.” Quixtus, his mind full of sweet atonement, did not detect any trace of acidity in her words. On the stroke of one, the time appointed for luncheon, Clementina and Sheila appeared at the end of the long lounge, Tommy and Etta straggling in their wake. Quixtus rose from the table where his three friends were seated, and advanced to meet them. Sheila ran forward and he took her in his arms and kissed her. “You didn’t ask these children to lunch, but I brought ’em.” “They’re very welcome,” said Quixtus, smiling. Tommy, his fair face aflame with joy, wrung his hand. “I told you I would look you up in the Hôtel Continental. By Jove! I am glad to see you. I’ve been an awful ass, you know. Of course I thought——”