each was sure that at bottom he or she was a ‘serious’ person, and quite different from the rest of the joyous world.  The character of Sophia’s flat, instead of repelling the wrong kind of aspirant, infallibly drew just that kind.  Hope was inextinguishable in these bosoms.  They heard that there would be no chance for them at Sophia’s; but they tried nevertheless.  And occasionally Sophia would make a mistake, and grave unpleasantness would occur before the mistake could be rectified.  The fact was that the street was too much for her.  Few people would credit that there was a serious boarding-house in the Rue Breda.  The police themselves would not credit it.  And Sophia’s beauty was against her.  At that time the Rue Breda was perhaps the most notorious street in the centre of Paris; at the height of its reputation as a warren of individual improprieties; most busily creating that prejudice against itself which, over thirty years later, forced the authorities to change its name in obedience to the wish of its tradesmen.  When Sophia went out at about eleven o’clock in the morning with her reticule to buy, the street was littered with women who had gone out with reticules to buy.  But whereas Sophia was fully dressed, and wore headgear, the others were in dressing-gown and slippers, or opera-cloak and slippers, having slid directly out of unspeakable beds and omitted to brush their hair out of their puffy eyes.  In the little shops of the Rue Breda, the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and the Rue des Martyrs, you were very close indeed to the primitive instincts of human nature.  It was wonderful; it was amusing; it was excitingly picturesque; and the universality of the manners rendered moral indignation absurd.  But the neighbourhood was certainly not one in which a woman of Sophia’s race, training, and character, could comfortably earn a living, or even exist.  She could not fight against the entire street.  She, and not the street, was out of place and in the wrong.  Little wonder that the neighbours lifted their shoulders when they spoke of her!  What beautiful woman but a mad Englishwoman would have had the idea of establishing herself in the Rue Breda with the intention of living like a nun and compelling others to do the same?

By dint of continual ingenuity, Sophia contrived to win somewhat more than her expenses, but she was slowly driven to admit to herself that the situation could not last.

Then one day she saw in Galignani’s Messenger an advertisement of an English pension for sale in the Rue Lord Byron, in the Champs Elysees quarter.  It belonged to some people named Frensham, and had enjoyed a certain popularity before the war.  The proprietor and his wife, however, had not sufficiently allowed for the vicissitudes of politics in Paris.  Instead of saving money during their popularity they had put it on the back and on the fingers of Mrs. Frensham.  The siege and the Commune had almost ruined them.  With capital they might have restored