come to pass, here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?”

“M. Lacordaire a prince!  No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your work.”

“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man?  Ain’t you very fond of him?”

To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer.

“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire?  I’m quite sure of this,—that he’s very fond of you.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring herself to refrain from the question.

“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue.  I don’t know what can have put such stuff into your head.”

“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put her down.

Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head resting on her hand.  She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself.  He had squeezed her hand and he had looked into her face.  However much it may have been nonsense on Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely occurred.  Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with her?

And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion?  He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to-day. Might it not be probable that he would advance a step further to-morrow?  If so, what answer would she be prepared to make to him?

She did not think—so she said to herself—that she had any particular objection to marrying again.  Thompson had been dead now for four years, and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she was wrong on that score.  And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not say she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that.  Of her own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but little—and perhaps cared less.  She had gone to India almost as a child, and England had not been specially kind to her on her return.  She had found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured.  People there had not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done.  As far as England and Englishmen were considered she saw no reason why she should not marry M. Lacordaire.

And then, as regarded the man; could she in her heart say that she was prepared to love, honour, and obey M. Lacordaire?  She certainly knew no reason why she should not do so.  She did not know much of him, she said to herself at first; but she knew as much, she said afterwards, as she had known personally of Mr. Thompson before their marriage.  She had known, to be sure, what was Mr. Thompson’s profession and what his income; or, if not, some one else had known for her.  As to both these points she was quite in the dark as regarded M. Lacordaire.

Personally, she certainly did like him, as she said to herself more than once.  There was a courtesy and softness about him which were very gratifying to her; and then, his appearance was so much in his favour.  He was not very young, she acknowledged; but neither was she young herself.  It was quite evident that he was fond of her children, and that he would be a kind and affectionate father to them.  Indeed, there was kindness in all that he did.

Should she marry again,—and she put it to herself quite hypothetically,—she would look for no romance in such a second marriage.  She would be content to sit down in a quiet home, to the tame dull realities of life, satisfied with the companionship of a man who would be kind and gentle to her, and whom she could respect and esteem.  Where could she find a companion with whom this could be more safely anticipated than with M. Lacordaire?

And so she argued the question within her own breast in a manner not unfriendly to that gentleman.  That there was as yet one great hindrance she at once saw; but then that might be remedied by a word.  She did not know what was his income or his profession.  The chambermaid, whom she had interrogated, had told her that he was a “marchand.”  To merchants, generally, she felt that she had no objection.  The Barings and the Rothschilds were merchants, as was also that wonderful man at Bombay, Sir Hommajee Bommajee, who was worth she did no know how many thousand lacs of rupees.

That it would behove her, on her own account and that of her daughters, to take care of her own little fortune in contracting any such connection, that she felt strongly.  She would never so commit herself as to put security in that respect out of her power.  But then she did not think that M. Lacordaire would ever ask her to do so; at any rate, she was determined on this, that there should never be any doubt on that matter; and as she firmly resolved on this, she again took up her book, and for a minute or two made an attempt to read.

“Mamma,” said Mummy, “will M. Lacordaire go up to the school to see Lilian when you go away from this?”

“Indeed, I cannot say, my dear.  If Lilian is a good girl, perhaps he may do so now and then.”

“And will he write to you and tell you how she is?”

“Lilian can write for herself; can she not?”

“Oh yes; I suppose she can; but I hope M. Lacordaire will write too.  We shall come back here some day; shan’t we, mamma?”

“I cannot say, my dear.”

“I do so hope we shall see M. Lacordaire again.  Do you know what I was thinking, mamma?”

“Little girls like you ought not to think,” said Mrs. Thompson, walking slowly out of the room to the top of the stairs and back again; for she had felt the necessity of preventing Mimmy from disclosing any more of her thoughts.  “And now, my dear, get yourself ready, and we will go up to the school.”

Mrs. Thompson always dressed herself with care, though not in especially fine clothes, before she went down to dinner at the table d’hôte; but on this occasion she was more than usually particular.  She hardly explained to herself why she did this; but, nevertheless, as she stood before the glass, she did in a certain manner feel that the circumstances of her future life might perhaps depend on what might be said and done that evening.  She had not absolutely decided whether or no she would go to the Prince’s château; but if she did go—.  Well, if she did; what then?  She had sense enough, as she assured herself more than once, to regulate her own conduct with propriety in any such emergency.

During the dinner, M. Lacordaire conversed in his usual manner, but said nothing whatever about the visit to Polignac.  He was very kind to Mimmy, and very courteous to her mother, but did not appear to be at all more particular than usual.  Indeed, it might be a question whether he was not less so.  As she had entered the room Mrs. Thompson had said to herself that, perhaps, after all, it would be better that there should be nothing more thought about it; but before the four of five courses were over, she was beginning to feel a little disappointed.

And now the fruit was on the table, after the consumption of which it was her practice to retire.  It was certainly open to her to ask M. Lacordaire to take tea with her that evening, as she had done on former occasions; but she felt that she must not do this now, considering the immediate circumstances of the case.  If any further steps were to be taken, they must be taken by him, and not by her;—or else by Mimmy, who, just as her mother was slowly consuming her last grapes, ran round to the back of M. Lacordaire’s chair, and whispered something into his ear.  It may be presumed that Mrs. Thompson did not see the intention of the movement in time to arrest it, for she did nothing till the whispering had been whispered; and then she rebuked the child, bade her not to be troublesome, and with more than usual austerity in her voice,