“No, my lord, not to-day.”

“I understand.  Well, it’s very natural; bring the affair to a happy conclusion.”

“I will do my best.”

Martinelli had found two or three parodies of my notice in the Advertiser, and came and read them to me.  I was much amused with them; they were mostly indecent, for the liberty of the press is much abused in London.  As for Martinelli he was too discreet and delicate a man to ask me about my new boarder.  As it was Sunday, I begged him to take me to mass at the Bavarian ambassador’s chapel; and here I must confess that I was not moved by any feelings of devotion, but by the hope of seeing Pauline.  I had my trouble for nothing, for, as I heard afterwards, she sat in a dark corner where no one could see her.  The chapel was full, and Martinelli pointed out several lords and ladies who were Catholics, and did not conceal their religion.

When I got home I received a note from Madame Cornelis, saying that as it was Sunday and she could go out freely, she hoped I would let her come to dinner.  I shewed the letter to Pauline, not knowing whether she would object to dining with her, and she said she would be happy to do so, provided there were no men.  I wrote in answer to Madame Cornelis that I should be glad to see her and her charming daughter at dinner.  She came, and Sophie did not leave my side for a moment.  Madame Cornelis, who was constrained in Pauline’s presence, took me aside to express her gratitude and to communicate to me some chimerical schemes of hers which were soon to make her rich.

Sophie was the life and soul of the party, but as I happened to tell her mother that Pauline was a lady who was lodging in my house, she said,

“Then she is not your wife?”

“No; such happiness is not for me.  It was a joke of mine, and the lady amused herself at the expense of your credulity.”

“Well, I should like to sleep with her.”

“Really?  When?”

“Whenever mamma will let me.”

“We must first ascertain,” said the mother, “what the lady thinks of the arrangement.”

“She needn’t fear a refusal,” said Pauline, giving the child a kiss.

“Then you shall have her with pleasure, madam.  I will get her governess to fetch her away to-morrow.”

“At three o’clock,” said I, “for she must dine with us.”

Sophie, taking her mother’s silence for consent, went up to her and kissed her, but these attentions were but coldly received.  She unfortunately did not know how to inspire love.

After Madame Cornelis had gone, I asked Pauline if she would like to take a walk with Sophie and myself in the suburbs, where nobody would know her.

“In prudence,” said she, “I cannot go out unless I am alone.”

“Then shall we stay here?”

“We could not do better.”