“That would, indeed, be a privilege.  Who is this lady?”

“Her name,” said Dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the little note upon his desk, “is Madame de Courcelles.  She is a very charming and accomplished lady.”

I decided in my own mind that Madame de Courcelles was the writer of that note.

“Is she married?” was my next question.

“She is a widow,” replied Dalrymple.  “Monsieur de Courcelles was many years older than his wife, and held office as a cabinet minister during the greater part of the reign of Louis Phillippe.  He has been dead these four or five years.”

“Then she is rich?”

“No—­not rich; but sufficiently independent.”

“And handsome?”

“Not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating.”

Graceful, fascinating, independent, and a widow!  Coupling these facts with the correspondence which I believed I had detected, I grouped them into a little romance, and laid out my friend’s future career as confidently as if it had depended only on myself to marry him out of hand, and make all parties happy.

Dalrymple sat musing for a moment, with his chin resting on his hands and his eyes fixed on the desk.  Then shaking back his hair as if he would shake back his thoughts with it, he started suddenly to his feet and said, laughingly:—­

“Now, young Damon, to Michaud’s—­to Michaud’s, with what speed we may!  Farewell to ‘Tempe and the vales of Arcady,’ and hey for civilization, and a swallow-tailed coat!”

I noticed, however, that before we left the room, he put the little note tenderly away in a drawer of his desk, and locked it with a tiny gold key that hung upon his watch-chain.

CHAPTER XIII.

I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY.

At ten o’clock on Monday evening, Dalrymple called for me, and by ten o’clock, thanks to the great Michaud and other men of genius, I presented a faultless exterior.  My friend walked round me with a candle, and then sat down and examined me critically.

“By Jove!” said he, “I don’t believe I should have known you!  You are a living testimony to the science of tailoring.  I shall call on Michaud, to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration.”

“I am very uncomfortable,” said I, ruefully.

“Uncomfortable! nonsense—­Michaud’s customers don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“But he has not made me a single pocket!”

“And what of that?  Do you suppose the great Michaud would spoil the fit of a masterpiece for your convenience?”

“What am I to do with my pocket-handkerchief?”

“Michaud’s customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs.”

“And then my trousers...”

“Unreasonable Juvenile, what of the trousers?”

“They are so tight that I dare not sit down in them.”

“Barbarian!  Michaud’s customers never sit down in society.”