set out to expound to him the elements of world politics. Two phases of French poetry formed an essential factor of his intellectual life—the Fifteenth Century Amorists, and the later romanticists. He could quote Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Théodore de Banville by the mile. When stirred he had in his voice disquieting tones. He recited the “_Chanson de Fortunio_” and the “_Chanson de Barberine_” in the moonlight, and Corinna caught her breath and felt a shiver down her spine. It was a new sensation for Corinna to feel shivers down her spine at the sound of a man’s voice. _Mais j’aime trop pour que je die_ _Qui j’ose aimer,_ _Et je veux mourir pour ma mie_ _Sans la nommer._ She went to bed with the words singing in her ears like music. Altogether it was much more comforting to talk to Bigourdin than to take lessons in household management from Félise. At last the day came when she plucked up courage and demanded of Martin an account of his stewardship. He tried to evade the task by flourishing in her face a bundle of notes. They had heaps, said he, to go on with. But Corinna pressed her enquiry with feminine insistence. Had he kept any memoranda of expenditure? Of course methodical Martin had done so. Where was it? Reluctantly he drew a soiled note book from his pocket and side by side at a little table on the verandah, her fair hair brushing his dark cheek, they added up the figures and apportioned and divided and eventually struck the balance. Corinna was one franc seventy-five centimes in Martin’s debt. She had not one penny in the world. She had one franc seventy-five centimes less than nothing. She rose white-lipped. “You ought to have told me.” “Why?” asked Martin. “There’s plenty of money in the common stock.” “There never was any such thing as a common stock.” “I thought there was,” said Martin. “I thought we had arranged it with Fortinbras. Anyhow, there’s one now.” “There isn’t,” she cried indignantly. “Do you suppose I’m going to live on your money? What kind of a girl do you take me for?” “An unconventional one,” said Martin. “But not dishonourable. To assert my freedom and live by myself in Paris and run about France alone with you may be unconventional. But for a girl to accept support from a man when—when she gives him nothing in return—is a different thing altogether.” They argued for some time, and at the end of the argument neither was convinced. She upbraided. Martin ought to have struck a daily balance. He continued to put forward the plea of the common stock to which she had apparently given her tacit agreement. “Well, well,” said Martin at last, “there’s no dishonour in a loan. You can give me an I.O.U. That’s a legal document.” “But how do you suppose I am ever going to pay you?” “That, my dear Corinna,” said he, “is a matter which doesn’t interest me in the least.”