“Shall I show you how much I do respect you, then?” she said.  “One may ask of a friend things one would not dream of asking of a mere acquaintance, and so—­Mr. Cleek, this night of horror has been too much for me.  I know now that I can no longer remain in this position in this dreadful city.  I have already resigned my post, and will return to England, and—­if I am not too late for it—­make an effort to secure the post of governess to Lady Chepstow’s little son.  I shall start in the morning.  Will you play the part of friend and guide and see me safely across the Channel?”

“Do you mean that?” he asked, his face alight, his eyes shining.  “You will let me have the privilege, the honour?  What a queen you are!  You give largesse with both hands when a simple coin would have been enough.  Shall I secure your tickets?  When will you have your luggage ready?  Is there anything you will need before you leave?”

She smiled at his enthusiasm, coloured anew, and again held out her hand.

“We will talk of all that in the morning,” she said.  “There will be plenty of time.  Mlle. de Carjorac has promised to look after my effects and to see that they are shipped on to me in due course.  But now it really must be good-night.  I shall see you again at breakfast.”

“At breakfast?” repeated Cleek, with a happy laugh.  “I wonder if you understand that I shall be kicking my heels on my bedside until it is ready?—­that I shan’t sleep a wink all night?”

And as events proved he came respectably close to living up to that exuberant assertion—­merely napping now and again, to wake up suddenly and “moon” for an hour or so; and, between periodical inspections of his watch, to wonder if God ever made a night so long and slow-dragging as this one.

It had its recompense, however; for all—­or nearly all—­the next day was passed in company with her; and more than that he would not have asked of Heaven.  Long before she rose he had made all arrangements for the journey to Calais; and she was not a little gratified—­yes, and touched if the truth must be told—­on arriving at the train, to find that he had made no effort to secure accommodations which would compel her to endure his companionship alone from the Gare du Nord to the steamer, but had considerately reserved seats in a compartment containing other travellers, and had done everything in his power to relieve her of any possible embarrassment and to insure her all possible comforts.  Even magazines and pictorial papers were not omitted, but were there for her in plenty lest she might prefer an excuse for not indulging much in conversation; and there was also a huge bunch of La France roses bought at the temporary flower market beside the Madeleine at daybreak that morning.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he said, as he laid them in her lap.  “Will it surprise you to learn that flowers are a passion with me, and that I am a living refutation of the fallacy that ’there can be nothing very wrong about a man who can cultivate a garden’?”