Thus I dreamed on for the better part of an hour, until, soon after six o’clock, there was a knock at the outer door and I heard Theodore’s shuffling footsteps crossing the small anteroom.  There was some muttered conversation, and presently my door was opened and Theodore’s ugly face was thrust into the room.

“A lady to see you,” he said curtly.

Then, he dropped his voice, smacked his lips, and winked with one eye.  “Very pretty,” he whispered, “but has a young man with her whom she calls Arthur.  Shall I send them in?”

I then and there made up my mind that I would get rid of Theodore now that I could afford to get a proper servant.  My business would in future be greatly extended; it would become very important, and I was beginning to detest Theodore.  But I said “Show the lady in!” with becoming dignity, and a few moments later a beautiful woman entered my room.

I was vaguely conscious that a creature of my own sex walked in behind her, but of him I took no notice.  I rose to greet the lady and invited her to sit down, but I had the annoyance of seeing the personage whom deliberately she called “Arthur” coming familiarly forward and leaning over the back of her chair.

I hated him.  He was short and stout and florid, with an impertinent-looking moustache, and hair that was very smooth and oily save for two tight curls, which looked like the horns of a young goat, on each side of the centre parting.  I hated him cordially, and had to control my feelings not to show him the contempt which I felt for his fatuousness and his air of self-complacency.  Fortunately the beautiful being was the first to address me, and thus I was able to ignore the very presence of the detestable man.

“You are M. Ratichon, I believe,” she said in a voice that was dulcet and adorably tremulous, like the voice of some sweet, shy young thing in the presence of genius and power.

“Hector Ratichon,” I replied calmly.  “Entirely at your service, Mademoiselle.”  Then I added, with gentle, encouraging kindliness, “Mademoiselle . . . ?”

“My name is Geoffroy,” she replied, “Madeleine Geoffroy.”

She raised her eyes—­such eyes, my dear Sir!—­of a tender, luscious grey, fringed with lashes and dewy with tears.  I met her glance.  Something in my own eyes must have spoken with mute eloquence of my distress, for she went on quickly and with a sweet smile.  “And this,” she said, pointing to her companion, “is my brother, Arthur Geoffroy.”

An exclamation of joyful surprise broke from my lips, and I beamed and smiled on M. Arthur, begged him to be seated, which he refused, and finally I myself sat down behind my desk.  I now looked with unmixed benevolence on both my clients, and then perceived that the lady’s exquisite face bore unmistakable signs of recent sorrow.

“And now, Mademoiselle,” I said, as soon as I had taken up a position indicative of attention and of encouragement, “will you deign to tell me how I can have the honour to serve you?”