They did not discuss Corinna further. But Martin felt that his companion had formulated his own diagnosis of Corinna’s abiding defect: her suspicion that the cosmic scheme centred round the evolution of Corinna Hastings. In a very subtle way the divinity had established implied understandings between them. They were of much the same parentage. In her own family the napkin had played no ignoble part. They were at one in their little confidential estimate of their common friend. And when she threw back her adorable head and drew a deep breath and said: “It’s just lovely here,” he felt deliciously near her. Deliciously and dangerously. A little later, as they came upon the rock dwellings, she laid a fleeting, but thrilling touch on his arm. “What in the world are those houses?” He told her. He described the lives of the inhabitants. He described, on the way back, for the rocks marked the limit of their stroll, his adventure with Boucabeille. Ordinarily shy, and if not tongue-tied, at least unimaginative in speech, he now found vivid words and picturesque images, his soul set upon repaying her, in some manner for her gracious comradeship. Her smiles, her interest, her quick sympathy, the occasional brush of her furs against his body, as she leaned to listen, intoxicated him. He spoke of France, the land of his adoption, and the spiritual France that no series of hazardous governments could impair, with rhapsodical enthusiasm. She declared, in her rich, deep voice, as though carried away by him: “I love to hear you say such things. It is splendid to get to the soul of a people.” Her tone implied admiration of achievement. He laughed rather foolishly, in besotted happiness. They had reached the steep road leading to the Hôtel des Grottes. She threw a hand to the moonlit bridge, where they had met. “Were you thinking of all that when I dragged you off?” He laughed again. “No,” he confessed. “I was wondering what on earth I was doing there.” “I think,” said she softly, “you have just given me the _mot de l’enigme_.” In the vestibule they came across Bigourdin, cigarette in mouth, sprawling as might have been expected, on the cane-bottomed couch. He was always the last to retire, a fact which the blissful Martin had forgotten. Lucilla sailed up, radiant in her furs, the flush of exercise on her cheeks visible even under the dim electric light. Bigourdin raised his ponderous bulk. “I found Monsieur Martin outside,” she said, “and I commandeered him as an escort round the neighbourhood. He couldn’t refuse. I hope I haven’t done wrong.” “Martin knows more about Brantôme,” replied Bigourdin courteously, “than most of the Brantômois themselves.” Céleste appeared from the gloom of the stairs. Lucilla, after an idle word or two, retired. Bigourdin closed and bolted the front door. To do that he would trust nobody, not even Martin. Having completed the operation, he advanced slowly towards his employé. “Did you go to the café to-night?”