For some reason I came to be persuaded that she had left Paris, that she had gone away; and I pictured her—­a little despairingly—­on the borders of Lucerne, with the white Alps in the sky above her,—­or perhaps listening to the evening songs on the Grand Canal, and I would try to feel the little rocking of her gondola, making myself dream that I sat at her feet.  Or I could see the grey flicker of the pongee skirt in the twilight distance of cathedral aisles with a chant sounding from a chapel; and, so dreaming, I would start spasmodically, to hear the red-coated orchestra of a cafe’ blare out into “Bedelia,” and awake to the laughter and rouge and blague which that dear pongee had helped me for a moment to forget!

To all places, Poor Jr., though never unkindly, dragged me with him, even to make the balloon ascent at the Porte Maillot on a windy evening.  Without embarrassment I confess that I was terrified, that I clung to the ropes with a clutch which frayed my gloves, while Poor Jr. leaned back against the side of the basket and gazed upward at the great swaying ball, with his hands in his pockets, humming the strange ballad that was his favourite musical composition: 

“The prettiest girl I ever saw

Was sipping cider through a straw-aw-haw!”

In that horrifying basket, scrambling for a foothold while it swung through arcs that were gulfs, I believed that my sorrows approached a sudden conclusion, but finding myself again upon the secure earth, I decided to come to an understanding with the young man.

Accordingly, on the following morning, I entered his apartment and addresses myself to Poor Jr. as severely as I could (for, truthfully, in all his follies I had found no ugliness in his spirit—­only a good-natured and inscrutable desire of wild amusement) reminding him of the authority his father had deputed to me, and having the venturesomeness to hint that the son should show some respect to my superior age.

To my consternation he replied by inquiring if I had shaved my head as yet that morning.  I could only drop in a chair, stammering to know what he meant.

“Didn’t you suppose I knew?” he asked, elevating himself slightly on his elbow from the pillow.  “Three weeks ago I left my aged parent in London and ran over here for a day.  I saw you at the Cafe’ de la Paix, and even then I knew that it was shaved, not naturally bald.  When you came here I recognized you like a shot, and that was why I was glad to accept you as a guardian.  I’ve enjoyed myself considerably of late, and you’ve been the best part of it,—­I think you are a wonderation!  I wouldn’t have any other governess for the world, but you surpass the orchestra when you beg me to respect your years!  I will bet you four dollars to a lead franc piece that you are younger than I am!”

Imagine the completeness of my dismay!  Although he spoke in tones the most genial, and without unkindness, I felt myself a man of tatters before him, ashamed to have him know my sorry secret, hopeless to see all chance of authority over him gone at once, and with it my opportunity to earn a salary so generous, for if I could continue to be but an amusement to him and only part of his deception of Lambert R. Poor, my sense of honour must be fit for the guillotine indeed.