‘There’s never any news from Granjolaye,’ said Andre.

’And the lady I met in the forest?  Have you any new theory who she is?’

‘An officer’s wife from Ba——­’

‘Andre!’ cried Paul.  ’If you say that again, I shall write to the Pope and ask him to disfrock you.’

The next day was fine; but, though he spent the entire morning in the Smuggler’s Pathway, he did not meet her.  ’It’s because the ground’s still wet,’ he reasoned.  ‘Oh, why don’t things dry quicker?’

The next day he did meet her—­and she passed him with a bow.  He shook his fist at her unsuspecting back.

The next day he perceived Bezigue riderless near the opening among the trees.  The horse neighed, as he drew near.  She was seated on the moss.  He stood still, and bowed tentatively from the path.  ’Are you disengaged?  May I come in?’ he asked.

‘Oh, do,’ she answered.  ‘And—­won’t you take a seat?’

‘Thank you,’ and he placed himself beside her.

‘Tell me about your life afterwards,’ she said.

‘My life afterwards?  After what?’

‘After you were carried off to Paris.’

‘What earthly interest can that have?’

‘I want to know.’

’It was the average life of the average youth whose family is in average circumstances.’

‘You went to school?’

‘What makes you doubt it?  Do I seem so illiterate?’

‘Where?  In England?  Eton?  Harrow?’

’No, in Paris.  The Lycee Louis le Grand.  Oh, I have received an education—­no expense was spared.  I forget how many years I passed a faire mon droit in the Latin Quarter.  You’d be surprised if you were to discover what a lot I know.  Shall I prove to you that the sum of the angles of a right-angled triangle is equal to two right angles?  Or conjugate the verb amo?  Or give you a brief summary of the doctrines of Aristotle?  Or an account of the life and works of Gustavus Alolphus?’

‘When did you go to England?’

’Not till Necessity drove me there.  I had to eke out a meagre patrimony.  I went to England to seek my fortune.’

‘Did you find it?’

’I never had the knack of finding things.  When my father used to send me into the library to fetch a book, or my mother into her dressing-room to fetch her scissors, I could never find them.  I looked for it everywhere, but I couldn’t find it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I lived by my wits. Chevalier d’industrie.’

‘Ah, non.  Je ne crois pas.’

’You don’t believe my wits were sufficient to the task?  I was like the London hospitals—­practically unendowed; only they wouldn’t support me by voluntary contributions.  So—­I wrote for the newspapers, I’m afraid.’

‘For the newspapers?’

’Oh, I admit, it’s scandalous.  But you may as well know the worst.  A penny-a-liner!  But I shan’t do so any more, now that I have stepped into the shoes of my uncle.  You’ll never catch me fatiguing myself with work, now that I’ve got enough to live on!’