She is not well; and her mother’s conduct sadly perplexes her.  At one time, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s sense of injury urges her to indulge in violent measures—­she is eager to place her deserted daughter under the protection of the law; to insist on a restitution of conjugal rights or on a judicial separation.  At another time she sinks into a state of abject depression; declares that it is impossible for her, in Stella’s deplorable situation, to face society; and recommends immediate retirement to some place on the Continent in which they can live cheaply.  This latter suggestion Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt.  She proves it by asking for my advice, in a postscript; no doubt remembering the happy days when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign friends of mine who called at our hotel.

The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted.  I knew perfectly well that it would be better for me not to see her—­and I went to London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train.

London, February 12.—­I found mother and daughter together in the drawing-room.  It was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s days of depression.  Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic reproach; she shook her dyed head and said, “Oh.  Winterfield, I didn’t think you would have done this!—­Stella, fetch me my smelling bottle.”

But Stella refused to take the hint.  She almost brought the tears into my eyes, she received me so kindly.  If her mother had not been in the room—­but her mother was in the room; I had no other choice than to enter on my business, as if I had been the family lawyer.

Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice, and then assured me that she had no intention of leaving London.  “How am I to get rid of my house?” she asked, irritably enough.  I knew that “her house” (as she called it) was the furnished upper part of a house belonging to another person, and that she could leave it at a short notice.  But I said nothing.  I addressed myself to Stella.

“I have been thinking of two or three places which you might like,” I went on.  “The nearest place belongs to an old French gentleman and his wife.  They have no children, and they don’t let lodgings; but I believe they would be glad to receive friends of mine, if their spare rooms are not already occupied.  They live at St. Germain—­close to Paris.”

I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last words—­I was as sly as Father Benwell himself.  Paris justified my confidence:  the temptation was too much for her.  She not only gave way, but actually mentioned the amount of rent which she could afford to pay.  Stella whispered her thanks to me as I went out.  “My name is not mentioned, but my misfortune is alluded to in the newspapers,” she said.  “Well-meaning friends are calling and condoling with me already.  I shall die, if you don’t help me to get away among strangers!”

I start for Paris by the mail train, to-night.