“Monsieur Bigourdin,” she said with a becoming air of dignity tempered by a pitying smile, “I know that you are everything that is kind, and I thank you most sincerely for your offer, but for private reasons it is one that I cannot accept. You must forgive me if I return to England, where my duty calls me.” “Your duty—to whom?” asked Fortinbras. She petrified him with a glance. “To myself,” she replied. “In that case there’s nothing more to be said,” remarked Bigourdin dismally. “There’s everything to be said,” declared Fortinbras. “But it’s not worth while saying it.” Corinna rose and gathered up her gloves. “I’m glad you realise the fact.” Bigourdin rose too and detained her for a second. “If you would do me the honour of accepting our hospitality for just a day or two”—delicately he included Félise as hostess—“perhaps you might be induced to reconsider your decision.” But she was not be moved—even by Martin who, having smoked the pipe of discreet silence during the discussion, begged her to postpone her departure. “Anyhow, wait,” said he, “until our good counsellor tells us what he proposes to do for me. As we started in together, it’s only fair.” “Yes,” said Corinna. “Let us hear. What _ordonnance de bonheur_ have you for Martin?” “Are you very anxious to know?” asked Fortinbras. “Naturally,” said Martin, and he added hastily in English, being somewhat shy of revealing himself to Bigourdin: “Corinna can tell you that I’ve been loyal to you all through. I’ve had a sort of blind confidence in you. I’ve chucked everything. But I’m nearly at the end of the financial tether, and something must happen.” “_Sans doute_,” said Fortinbras. So as to bring Bigourdin into range again, he continued in French. “To tell you what is going to happen is one of the reasons why I am here.” “Well, tell us,” said Corinna, “I can’t stand here all day.” “Won’t you sit down, mademoiselle?” said Bigourdin. Corinna took her vacated chair. “Aren’t you ever going to begin?” “I had prepared,” replied Fortinbras benevolently, “an exhaustive analysis of our young friend’s financial, moral and spiritual state of being. But, as you appear to be impatient, I will forego the pleasure of imparting to you this salutary instruction. So perhaps it is better that I should come to the point at once. He is practically penniless. He has abandoned all ideas of returning to his soul-stifling profession. But he must, in the commonplace way of mortals, earn his living. His soul has had a complete rest for three months. It is time now that it should be stimulated to effort that shall result in consequences more glorious than the poor human phenomenon that is, I can predict. My prescription of happiness, as you, Corinna, have so admirably put it, is that Martin shall take the place of the unclean Polydore, who, I understand, has recently been ejected with ignominy from this establishment.” His small audience gasped in three separate and particular fashions.