‘You must not desert us now,’ said the elder lady.  ’The better you think of poor Matilda—­and she is a good girl—­the more you ought to help her.’

It was the 8th of August, no other visitors were at the house, a shooting party was expected to arrive on the 11th.  Mrs. Brown-Smith dried her tears.  ‘It must be done,’ she said, ’though it makes me sick to think of it.’

Next day she met the Vidame in the park, and afterwards held a long conversation with Mrs. Malory.  As for the Vidame, he was in feverish high spirits, he devoted himself to Matilda, in fact Mrs. Brown-Smith had insisted on such dissimulation, as absolutely necessary at this juncture of affairs.  So Matilda bloomed again, like a rose that had been ’washed, just washed, in a shower.’  The Vidame went about humming the airs of the country which he had honoured by adopting it as the cradle of his ancestry.

On the morning of the following day, while the Vidame strayed with Matilda in the park, Mrs. Brown-Smith was closeted with Mrs. Malory in her boudoir.

‘Everything is arranged,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith.  ’I, guilty and reckless that I am, have only to sacrifice my character, and all my things.  But I am to retain Methven, my maid.  That concession I have won from his chivalry.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Mrs. Malory.

’At seven he will get a telegram summoning him to Paris on urgent business.  He will leave in your station brougham in time to catch the 9.50 up train at Wilkington.  Or, rather, so impatient is he, he will leave half an hour too early, for fear of accidental delays.  I and my maid will accompany him.  I have thought honesty the best policy, and told the truth, like Bismarck, “and the same,"’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith hysterically, ’"with intent to deceive.”  I have pointed out to him that my best plan is to pretend to you that I am going to meet my husband, who really arrives at Wilkington from Liverpool by the 9.17, though the Vidame thinks that is an invention of mine.  So, you see, I leave without any secrecy, or fuss, or luggage, and, when my husband comes here, he will find me flown, and will have to console himself with my luggage and jewels.  He—­this Frenchified beast, I mean—­has written a note for your daughter, which he will give to her maid, and, of course, the maid will hand it to you.  So he will have burned his boats.  And then you can show it to Matilda, and so,’ said Mrs. Brown-Smith, ’the miracle of opening her eyes will be worked.  Johnnie, my husband, and I will be hungry when we return about half-past ten.  And I think you had better telegraph that there is whooping cough, or bubonic plague, or something in the house, and put off your shooting party.’

‘But that would be an untruth,’ said Mrs. Malory.

‘And what have I been acting for the last ten days?’ asked Mrs. Brown-Smith, rather tartly.  ’You must settle your excuse with your conscience.’