woman accepting man, why that infernal smile on her pretty face? I must give you to understand that Martin knew nothing whatever about women. His ignorance placed him in this dilemma. He watched Corinna’s lips eager to hear what words would issue from them. She said coolly: “So long as this really is the end of Polydore, honour is satisfied.” Bigourdin stiffened under her gaze, and collecting himself, bowed formally. “As to that, Mademoiselle,” said he, “I give you my absolute assurance.” He turned to the commercial travellers. “Messieurs, I ask your pardon. You will not have to wait any longer. _Viens, Félise._” And landlord and niece took Polydore’s place for the rest of the meal. “Bigourdin’s a splendid fellow,” said Martin. Elbow on table she held a morsel of bread to her lips. “He waits so well, doesn’t he?” she said. He shrugged his shoulders. What was the use of arguing with a being with totally different standards and conception of values? Some little wisdom he was beginning to acquire. He spent the evening at the Café de Périgueux with Bigourdin, who, with an unwonted cloud on his brow, abused the Government in _atrabiliar_ terms. * * * * * The next morning Corinna, attired in her daintiest, wandered off to sketch lonely and demure. At _déjeuner_ she made a pretence of eating and entertained Martin with uninteresting and (to him) unintelligible criticism of Parisian actors. Bigourdin passed a moment or two of professional commonplace at the table and retired. An inexperienced young woman of the town, with the chambermaid’s assistance, replaced the villain of last night’s tragedy. Corinna continued her hectic conversation and took little account of Martin’s casual remarks. A mind even less subtle than her companion’s would have assigned some nervous disturbance as a reason for such feverish behaviour. But of what nature the disturbance? Vaguely he associated it with the Sundayfied raiment. Could it be that she intended, without drum or trumpet, to fly from Brantôme? “By the way, Martin,” she said suddenly, when the last wizened grape had been eaten, “have you ever taken those snapshots of the Château at Bourdeilles?” “I’m afraid I haven’t,” said he. “You promised to get them for me.” “I’ll go over with my camera one of these days,” said Martin. “That means _aux Kalendes Grecques_. Why not this beautiful afternoon?” “If you’ll come with me.” “I’ve rather a headache—or I would,” said Corinna. “As it is, I think I’ll have to lie down. But you go. It would do you good.” “Aha!” thought Martin astutely, “she wants to get rid of me, so that she can escape by the afternoon train to Paris.” Aloud he said, “I’ll go to-morrow.” “Why not to-day?” “I don’t feel like it,” said he.