“Of course, of course!” said the colonel, although, as a matter of fact, he did not know Spanish point from common ecru.

“This was some lace that had been in our family for generations.  You must understand we were not always as you see me—­poor; we belong to the old nobility.  My husband was highly born, but when he died I dropped the title and became Madame Cyprienne.  It was better, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps so; I am not sure,” replied the colonel, hardly knowing what to say.

“It was.  The idea of a countess a pauper, begging her bread!”

“What was your title, may I ask?” inquired the colonel, eagerly.  These tender confidences, accompanied by an occasional encouraging glance from her bright eyes, were rapidly increasing the interest he took in her.

“I am the Countess de Saint Clair,” replied Madame Cyprienne, proudly; “but I do not assume the title now.  I do not choose it to be known that I live by singing, and by selling the remnants of our family lace.”

“I hope Lady Essendine paid you a decent price,” said the colonel, pleasantly.

Madame Cyprienne shook her head, with a little laugh—­

“She has been very kind—­exceedingly kind—­but she knows how to drive a bargain:  all women do.”

“What a shame!  And have you sold it all?  You had better entrust me with the disposal of the rest.”

“Oh!  Colonel Wilders, I could not think of giving you so much trouble.”

“But I will; I should like to.  Send it to me.  My chambers are in Ryder Street; or, better still, I will call for it if you will tell me where,” said the colonel, artfully.

“I am lodging in a very poor place, not at all such as the Countess de Saint Clair should receive in.  But I am not ashamed of it; it is in Frith Street, Soho, no. 29A; but I do not think you ought to come there.”

“A most delightful part of the town,” said the colonel, who at the moment would have approved of Whitechapel or the New Cut.  “When shall I call?”

“In the afternoon.  In the morning I am engaged in giving lessons.  But come, we have lingered here long enough. Miladi will expect me to sing again.”

Lady Essendine frowned at Cousin Bill when he brought back her singer; but whether it was at the length of the talk, or the withdrawal of her protegee from the duties for which she was paid, her ladyship did not condescend to explain.  It was a little of both.  She was pleased to have hindered her son from paying marked attention to a person in Madame Cyprienne’s doubtful position.  Now she found that person exercising her fascinations upon Colonel Wilders, and it annoyed her, although Cousin Bill was surely old enough to take care of himself.  Already she was changing her opinion concerning the fair singer she had introduced into the London world.  She could not fail to notice the admiration Madame Cyprienne generally received, especially from the men, and she doubted whether she had done wisely in taking her by the hand.