He was amazingly clever, was Gilbert, for he had so arranged things that Christine had been able to cut off her Cork Street career as with a knife.  She had departed from Cork Street with two trunks and a few cardboard boxes—­her stove was abandoned to the landlord—­and vanished into London and left no trace.  Except Gilbert, nobody who knew her in Cork Street was aware of her new address, and nobody who knew her in Mayfair knew that she had come from Cork Street.  Her ancient acquaintances in Cork Street would ring the bell there in vain.

Madame Gaston was a neat, plump woman of perhaps forty, not looking her years.  She had a comprehending eye.  After three words from Gilbert she had mastered the situation, and as she perfectly realised where her interest lay she could be relied upon for discretion.  In all delicate matters only her eye talked.  She was a Protestant, and went to the French church in Soho Square, which she called the “Temple”.  Christine and she had had but one Sunday together—­and Christine had gone with her to the Temple!  The fact was that Christine had decided to be a Protestant.  She needed a religion, and Catholicism had an inconvenience—­confession.  She had regularised her position, so much so that by comparison with the past she was now perfectly respectable.  Yet if she had been candid in the confessional the priest would still have convicted her of mortal sin; which would have been very unfair; and she could not, in view of her respectability, have remained a Catholic without confessing, however infrequently.  Madame Gaston, as soon as she was sure of her convert, referred to Catholicism as “idolatry”.

“Put your apron on, Marie,” said Christine.  “Monsieur will be here directly.”

“Ah, yes, madame!”

“Have you opened the kitchen-window to take away the smell of cooking?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Am I all right, Marie?”

Madame Gaston surveyed her mistress, who turned round.

“Yes, madame.  I think that monsieur will much like that negligee.”  She departed to don the apron.

Between these two it was continually “monsieur,” “monsieur”.  He was seldom there, but he was always there, always being consulted, placated, invoked, revered, propitiated, magnified.  He was the giver of all good, and there was no other Allah, and he had two prophets.

Christine sang, she twittered, she pirouetted, out of sheer youthful joy.  She had forgotten care and forgotten promiscuity; good fortune had washed her pure.  She looked at herself in the massive bevelled mirror, and saw that she was fresh and young and lithe and graceful.  And she felt triumphant.  Gilbert had expressed the fear that she might get lonely and bored.  He had even said that occasionally he might bring along a man, and that perhaps the man would have a very nice woman friend.  She had not very heartily responded.  She was markedly sympathetic towards Englishmen, but towards English