Longmore was obliged to wait a week in London for a ship. It was very hot, and he went out for a day to Richmond. In the garden of the hotel at which he dined he met his friend Mrs. Draper, who was staying there. She made eager inquiry about Madame de Mauves, but Longmore at first, as they sat looking out at the famous view of the Thames, parried her questions and confined himself to small-talk. At last she said she was afraid he had something to conceal; whereupon, after a pause, he asked her if she remembered recommending him, in the letter she sent to him at Saint-Germain, to draw the sadness from her friend's smile. "The last I saw of her was her smile," said he,—"when I bade her good by."
"I remember urging you to console her," Mrs. Draper answered, "and I wondered afterwards whether—a model of discretion as you are—I had n't given you rather foolish advice."
"She has her consolation in herself," he said; "she needs none that any one else can offer her. That's for troubles for which—be it more, be it less—our own folly has to answer. Madame de Mauves has not a grain of folly left."
"Ah, don't say that!" murmured Mrs. Draper. "Just a little folly is very graceful."
Longmore rose to go, with a quick nervous movement. "Don't talk of grace," he said, "till you have measured her reason."
