“On the contrary,” he declared, “it has never been quieter.  If I have offended; it is through ignorance.”

“It is through charity, as usual,” she said m a low voice.  “If your conscience be quiet, mine is not.  It is in myself that I am disappointed—­I have been very selfish.  I have usurped you.  I have known it all along, and I have done very wrong in not relinquishing you before.”

“Who would have shown me Paris?” he exclaimed.

“No,” she continued, “you would not have been alone.  If I had needed proof of that fact, I had it to-day—­”

“Oh, Minturn,” he interrupted; “think of me hanging about an Embassy and trying not to spill tea!” And he smiled at the image that presented.

Her own smile was fleeting.

“You would never do that, I know,” she said gravely.

“You are still too modest, Peter, but the time has gone by when I can be easily deceived.  You have a great reputation among men of affairs, an unique one.  In spite of the fact that you are distinctly American, you have a wide interest in what is going on in the world.  And you have an opportunity here to meet people of note, people really worth while from every point of view.  You have no right to neglect it.”

He was silent a moment, looking down at her.  She was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on the fire, her hands clasped between her knees.

“Do you think I care for that?” he asked.

“You ought to care,” she said, without looking up.  “And it is my duty to try to make you care.”

“Honora, why do you think I came over here?” he said.

“To see Paris,” she answered.  “I have your own word for it.  To—­to continue your education.  It never seems to stop.”

“Did you really believe that?”

“Of course I believed it.  What could be more natural?  And you have never had a holiday like this.”

“No,” he agreed.  “I admit that.”

“I don’t know how much longer you are going to stay,” she said.  “You have not been abroad before, and there are other places you ought to go.”

“I’ll get you to make out an itinerary.”

“Peter, can’t you see that I’m serious?  I have decided to take matters in my own hands.  The rest of the time you are here, you may come to see me twice a week.  I shall instruct the concierge.”

He turned and grasped the mantel shelf with both hands, and touched the log with the toe of his boot.

“What I told you about seeing Paris may be called polite fiction,” he said.  “I came over here to see you.  I have been afraid to say it until to-day, and I am afraid to say it now.”

She sat very still.  The log flared up again, and he turned slowly and looked at the shadows in her face.

“You-you have always been good to me,” she answered.  “I have never deserved it—­I have never understood it.  If it is any satisfaction for you to know that what I have saved of myself I owe to you, I tell you so freely.”