This was a lie, justified in the utterer’s opinion as a repulse to Mr. Mardon’s vulgar inquisitiveness, such inquisitiveness as might have been expected from a fellow who tucked his serviette under his chin.  Peel-Swynnerton knew exactly how long he would stay.  He would stay until the day after the morrow; he had only about fifty francs in his pocket.  He had been making a fool of himself in another quarter of Paris, and he had descended to the Pension Frensham as a place where he could be absolutely sure of spending not more than twelve francs a day.  Its reputation was high, and it was convenient for the Galliera Museum, where he was making some drawings which he had come to Paris expressly to make, and without which he could not reputably return to England.  He was capable of foolishness, but he was also capable of wisdom, and scarcely any pressure of need would have induced him to write home for money to replace the money spent on making himself into a fool.

Mr. Mardon was conscious of a check.  But, being of an accommodating disposition, he at once tried another direction.

“Good food here, eh?” he suggested.

“Very,” said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity.  “I was quite—­”

At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed open the principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway.  Peel-Swynnerton had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale, and that her hair was black, and then she was gone again, followed by a clipped poodle that accompanied her.  She had signed with a brief gesture to one of the servants, who at once set about lighting the gas-jets over the table.

“Who is that?” asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that it was now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkin covered all his shirt-front.

“That’s the missis, that is,” said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and semi-confidential voice.

“Oh!  Mrs. Frensham?”

“Yes.  But her real name is Scales,” said Mr. Mardon, proudly.

“Widow, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And she runs the whole show?”

“She runs the entire contraption,” said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; “and don’t you make any mistake!” He was getting familiar.

Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful, uninterested nonchalance at the gas-burners which exploded one after another with a little plop under the application of the maid’s taper.  The white table gleamed more whitely than ever under the flaring gas.  People at the end of the room away from the window instinctively smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine.  The aspect of the dinner was changed, ameliorated; and with the reiterated statement that the evenings were drawing in though it was only July, conversation became almost general.  In two minutes Mr. Mardon was genially talking across the whole length of the table.  The meal finished in a state that resembled conviviality.