“My little rabbit,” she replied very calmly and reasonably and caressingly.  “Do not imagine to thyself that I blame thee.  I do not blame thee.  I comprehend too well all that thou dost, all that thou art worth.  In every way thou art stronger than me.  I am ten times nothing.  I know it.  I have no grievance against thee.  Thou hast always given me what thou couldst, and I on my part have never demanded too much.  Say, have I been excessive?  At this hour I make no claim on thee.  I have done all that to me was possible to make thee happy.  In my soul I have always been faithful to thee.  I do not praise myself for that.  I did not choose it.  These things are not chosen.  They come to pass—­that is all.  And it arrived that I was bound to go mad about thee, and to remain so.  What wouldst thou?  Speak not of the war.  Is it not because of the war that I am in exile, and that I am ruined?  I have always worked honestly for my living.  And there is not on earth an officer who has encountered me who can say that I have not been particularly nice to him—­because he was an officer.  Thou wilt excuse me if I speak of such matters.  I know I am wrong.  It is contrary to my habit.  But what wouldst thou?  I also have done what I could for the war.  But it is my ruin.  Oh, my Gilbert!  Tell me what I must do.  I ask nothing from thee but advice.  It was for that that I dared to telephone thee.”

G.J. answered casually: 

“I see nothing to worry about.  It will be necessary to take another flat.  That is all.”

“But I—­I know nothing of London.  One tells me that it is in future impossible for women who live alone—­like me—­to find a flat—­that is to say, respectable.”

“Absurd!  I will find a flat.  I know precisely where there is a flat.”

“But will they let it to me?”

“They will let it to me, I suppose,” said he, still casually.

A pause ensued.

She said, in a voice trembling: 

“Thou art not going to say to me that thou wilt put me among my own furniture?”

“The flat is furnished.  But it is the same thing.”

“Do not let such a hope shine before me—­me who saw before me only the pavement.  Thou art not serious.”

“I never was more serious.  For whom dost thou take me, little-foolish one?”

She cried: 

“Oh, you English!  You are chic.  You make love as you go to war.  Like that!...  One word—­it is decided!  And there is nothing more to say!  Ah!  You English!”

She had almost screamed, shuddering under the shock of his decision, for which she had impossibly hoped, but whose reality overwhelmed her.  He sat there in front of her, elegant, impeccably dressed, distinguished, aristocratic, rich, in the full wisdom of his years, and in the strength of his dominating will, and in the righteousness of his heart.  One could absolutely trust such as him to do the right thing, and to do