“Ninety-five,” said the bookseller—she was speckled and dusty and colourless like the back of her library——” “But in Paris——” “In Paris it is different, mademoiselle. We are here _en province_.” Corinna added the extra twopence and went out with Martin, grasping her prize. “This is the deliciousest place in the world,” she laughed. “Eighteen eighty-two! Why, that’s years before I was born!” “But what on earth are we going to do for books here?” Martin asked anxiously. “There is always the railway station,” said Corinna. “And if you kiss the old lady at the bookstall nicely, she will get you anything you want.” “The ways of provincial France,” said Martin, “take a good deal of finding out!” * * * * * Thus began their first day in Brantôme. It ended peacefully. Another day passed and yet another and many more, and they lived in lotus land. Soon after their arrival came their luggage from Paris, and they were enabled to change the aspect of the road-worn vagabond for that of neat suburban English folk and as such gained the approbation of the small community. They had little else to do but continue to repeat their exploration. In their unadventurous wanderings Félise sometimes accompanied them and shyly spoke her halting English. To Corinna alone she could chatter with quaint ungrammatical fluency; but in Martin’s presence she blushed confusedly at every broken sentence. All her young life she had lived in her mother’s land and spoken her mother’s tongue. She had a vague notion that legally she was English, and she took mighty pride in it, but by training and mental habit she was the little French bourgeoise, through and through. With Martin alone, however, she abandoned all attempts at English, and gradually her shyness disappeared. She gave the first signs of confidence by speaking of her mother in Paris as of a dream woman of wonderful excellencies. “You see her often, mademoiselle?” Martin asked politely. “Alas! no, Monsieur Martin.” She shook her head sadly and gazed into the distance. They were idling on one of the bridges while Corinna a few feet away made a rapid sketch. “But your father?” “Ah, yes. He comes four times a year. It is not that I do not love him. _J’adore papa._ Every one does. You cannot help it. But it is not the same thing. A mother——” “I know, mademoiselle,” said Martin. “My mother died a few months ago.” She looked at him with quick tenderness. “That must have caused you much pain.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” said Martin simply, and he smiled for the first time into her eyes, realising quite suddenly that beneath them lay deep wells of sympathy and understanding. “Perhaps one of these days you will let me talk to you about her,” he added. She flushed. “Why, yes. Talking relieves the heart.” She used the French word “_soulager_”—that word of deep-mouthed comfort. “It does. And your mother, Mademoiselle Félise?”