am just the little fool—­but the French lady is my theme.  Madame la Marquise, your eyes are sweeter to me than celestial.  I never saw such candour and unaffected innocence in eyes before.  Accept the compliment of the pauvre Anglaise.  Did you do mischief with them?  Did Vidal’s delicate sketch do justice to you?  Your lips and chin and your throat all repose in such girlish grace, that if ever it is my good fortune to see you, you will not be aged to me!

I slept and dreamed of her.

In the morning, I felt certain that she had often said:  ’Mon cher Gilbert,’ to Mr. Pollingray.  Had he ever said:  ‘Ma chere Louise?’ He might have said:  ‘Ma bien aimee!’ for it was a face to be loved.

My change of feeling towards him dates from that morning.  He had previously seemed to me a man so much older.  I perceived in him now a youthfulness beyond mere vigour of frame.  I could not detach him from my dreams of the night.  He insists upon addressing me by the terms of our ‘official’ relationship, as if he made it a principle of our intercourse.

’Well, and is your godpapa to congratulate you on your having had a quiet rest?’ was his greeting.

I answered stupidly:  ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ and would have given worlds for the courage to reply in French, but I distrusted my accent.  At breakfast, the opportunity or rather the excuse for an attempt, was offered.  His French valet, Francois, waits on him at breakfast.  Mr. Pollingray and his sister asked for things in the French tongue, and, as if fearing some breach of civility, Mr. Pollingray asked me if I knew French.

Yes, I know it; that is, I understand it,’ I stuttered.  Allons, nous parlerons francais,’ said he.  But I shook my head, and remained like a silly mute.

I was induced towards the close of the meal to come out with a few French words.  I was utterly shamefaced.  Mr. Pollingray has got the French manner of protesting that one is all but perfect in one’s speaking.  I know how absurd it must have sounded.  But I felt his kindness, and in my heart I thanked him humbly.  I believe now that a residence in France does not deteriorate an Englishman.  Mr. Pollingray, when in his own house, has the best qualities of the two countries.  He is gay, and, yes, while he makes a study of me, I am making a study of him.  Which of us two will know the other first?  He was papa’s college friend—­papa’s junior, of course, and infinitely more papa’s junior now.  I observe that weakness in him, I mean, his clinging to youthfulness, less and less; but I do see it, I cannot be quite in error.  The truth is, I begin to feel that I cannot venture to mistrust my infallible judgement, or I shall have no confidence in myself at all.

After breakfast, I was handed over to Miss Pollingray, with the intimation that I should not see him till dinner.

’Gilbert is anxious to cultivate the society of his English neighbours, now that he has, as he supposes, really settled among them,’ she remarked to me.  ’At his time of life, the desire to be useful is almost a malady.  But, he cherishes the poor, and that is more than an occupation, it is a virtue.’