his eyes off her.  The two men walked away together; they were going to Mr. Wentworth’s.  Mr. Brand still said nothing; but after they had passed into Mr. Wentworth’s garden he stopped and looked back for some time at the little white house.  Then, looking at his companion, with his head bent a little to one side and his eyes somewhat contracted, “Now I suppose that ’s what is called conversation,” he said; “real conversation.”

“It ’s what I call a very clever woman,” said Acton, laughing.

“It is most interesting,” Mr. Brand continued.  “I only wish she would speak French; it would seem more in keeping.  It must be quite the style that we have heard about, that we have read about—­the style of conversation of Madame de Stael, of Madame Recamier.”

Acton also looked at Madame Munster’s residence among its hollyhocks and apple-trees.  “What I should like to know,” he said, smiling, “is just what has brought Madame Recamier to live in that place!”

CHAPTER V

Mr. Wentworth, with his cane and his gloves in his hand, went every afternoon to call upon his niece.  A couple of hours later she came over to the great house to tea.  She had let the proposal that she should regularly dine there fall to the ground; she was in the enjoyment of whatever satisfaction was to be derived from the spectacle of an old negress in a crimson turban shelling peas under the apple-trees.  Charlotte, who had provided the ancient negress, thought it must be a strange household, Eugenia having told her that Augustine managed everything, the ancient negress included—­Augustine who was naturally devoid of all acquaintance with the expurgatory English tongue.  By far the most immoral sentiment which I shall have occasion to attribute to Charlotte Wentworth was a certain emotion of disappointment at finding that, in spite of these irregular conditions, the domestic arrangements at the small house were apparently not—­from Eugenia’s peculiar point of view—­strikingly offensive.  The Baroness found it amusing to go to tea; she dressed as if for dinner.  The tea-table offered an anomalous and picturesque repast; and on leaving it they all sat and talked in the large piazza, or wandered about the garden in the starlight, with their ears full of those sounds of strange insects which, though they are supposed to be, all over the world, a part of the magic of summer nights, seemed to the Baroness to have beneath these western skies an incomparable resonance.

Mr. Wentworth, though, as I say, he went punctiliously to call upon her, was not able to feel that he was getting used to his niece.  It taxed his imagination to believe that she was really his half-sister’s child.  His sister was a figure of his early years; she had been only twenty when she went abroad, never to return, making in foreign parts a willful and undesirable marriage.  His aunt, Mrs. Whiteside, who had taken