couple of evenings before,—a sure sign she wanted to see him.
"I depend upon you," said M. de Mauves's friend with an infantine drawl, "to put her en train."
M. de Mauves resisted, and protested that he was d'une humeur massacrante; but at last he allowed himself to be drawn to his feet, and stood looking awkwardly—awkwardly for M. de Mauves—at Longmore. "You 'll excuse me," he said dryly; "you, too, probably, have occupation for the evening?"
"None but to catch my train," Longmore answered, looking at his watch.
"Ah, you go back to Saint-Germain?"
"In half an hour."
M. de Mauves seemed on the point of disengaging himself from his companion's arm, which was locked in his own; but on the latter uttering some persuasive murmur, he lifted his hat stiffly and turned away.
Longmore packed his trunk the next day with dogged heroism and wandered off to the terrace, to try and beguile the restlessness with which he waited for evening; for he wished to see Madame de Mauves for the last time at the hour of long shadows and pale pink-reflected lights, as he had almost always seen her. Destiny, however, took no account of this humble plea for poetic justice; it was his fortune to meet her on the terrace sitting under a tree, alone. It was an hour
