“You should have come sooner. I find I am living now on Martin’s charity and the time has come to put all this rubbish aside and go home to my people with my tail between my legs. It’s vastly pleasant, I assure you.” “Oh, young woman of little faith!—Why did you not put your trust in me, instead of in callow medical students with ridiculous mothers?” Corinna flushed crimson and her eyes hardened in anger. “I suppose every gossiping tongue in this horrid little hotel has been wagging. That’s why I’m going off now, so that they can wag in my absence.” “But my dear Penthesilea,” said Fortinbras soothingly, “why get so angry? Every living soul in this horrid hotel is on your side. They would give their eyes and ears to help you and sympathise with you and shew you that they love you.” “I don’t want their sympathy,” said Corinna stubbornly. “Or any human expression of affection or regret? You want just to pay your bill like any young woman in an automobile who has put up for the night and go your way?” “No. I don’t. But I’ve been damnably treated and I want to get away back to England.” “Who has treated you damnably here?” asked Fortinbras. “Don’t be idiotic,” cried Corinna. “Everybody here has been simply angelic to me—even Martin.” “On the whole I think I’ve behaved fairly decently since we started out together,” Martin observed. “At any rate you act according to the instincts of a gentleman,” she admitted. Fortinbras leaned back in his chair and drew a breath of relief. “I’m glad to perceive that this hurried departure is not an elopement.” “Elopement!” she echoed. “Do you think I’d——” Fortinbras checked her with his uplifted hand. “Sh! Would you like me to tell you in a few words everything that has happened?” He bent his intellectual brow upon her and held her with his patient, tired eyes. “Being at the end of your resources, not desiring to share in the vagabond’s pool with Martin, and losing faith in my professional pledge, you bethink you of the young popinjay with whom, in your independent English innocence, but to the scandal of his French relatives, you have flaunted it in the restaurants and theatres of Paris. _Il vous a conté fleurette._ He has made his little love to you. All honour and no blame to him. At his age”—he bowed—“I would have done the same. You correspond on the sentimental plane. But in all his correspondence you will find not one declaration in form.” Corinna mechanically peeled off her gloves. Fortinbras drew a whiff of his cigarette. He continued:—