“It isn’t often that I have the pleasure of dining with you,” I said by way of apology.

“This is the very first time,” she said.

“And it’s not going to be the last,” I declared.

“I thought you were going to ship me back to Marseilles to-morrow.”

She laughed lazily, meeting my eyes.  I smiled.

“It would be inhuman.  I allow you a few day’s rest.”

Indeed, now she was here I had a curious desire to keep her.  I regarded the failure of my eumoirous little plans with more than satisfaction.  I had done my best.  I had found (through the dwarf’s agency) Captain Vauvenarde.  I had satisfied myself that he was an outrageous person, thoroughly disqualified from becoming Lola’s husband, and there was an end of the matter.  Meanwhile Fate (again through the agency of Anastasius) had brought her many hundreds of miles away from Dale and had moreover brought her to me.  I was delighted.  I patted Destiny on the back, and drank his health in excellent Pommery.  Lola did not know in the least what I meant, but she smiled amiably and drank the toast.  It was quite a merry dinner.  Lola threw herself into my mood and jested as if she had never heard of an undesirable husband who had been kicked out of the French Army.  We talked of many things.  I described in fuller detail my adventure with Anastasius and Saupiquet, and we laughed over the debt of fifteen sous and the elaborate receipt.

“Anastasius,” she said, “is childish in many ways—­the doctors have a name for it.”

“Arrested development.”

“That’s it; but he is absolutely cracked on one point—­the poisoning of my horse Sultan.  He has reams of paper which he calls the dossier of the crime.  You never saw such a collection of rubbish in your life.  I cried over it.  And he is so proud of it, poor wee mite.”  She laughed suddenly.  “I should love to have seen you hobnobbing with him and Saupiquet.”

“Why?”

“You’re so aristocratic-looking,” she did me the embarrassing honour to explain in her direct fashion.  “You’re my idea of an English duke.”

“My dear Lola,” I replied, “you’re quite wrong.  The ordinary English duke is a stout, middle-aged gentleman with a beard, and he generally wears thick knickerbockers and shocking bad hats.”

“Do you know any?”

“Two or three,” I admitted.

“And duchesses, too?”

I again pleaded guilty.  In these democratic days, if one is engaged in public and social affairs one can’t help running up against them.  It is their fault, not mine.

“Do tell me about them,” said Lola, with her elbows on the table.

I told her.

“And are earls and countesses just the same?” she asked with a disappointed air.

“Just the same, only worse.  They’re so ordinary you can’t pick them out from common misters and missuses.”