his careful tread, bending over the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before the fireplace, with his nose very close to the great lace flounce attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately, as if he were smelling it.
"It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good."
"It's too good for this; you ought to wear it."
"They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation."
"Ah, but I can't wear mine," said Rosier, smiling.
"I don't see why you shouldn't! I have better lace than that to wear."
Eosier's eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again.
"You have some very good things."
"Yes, but I hate them."
"Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man asked quickly.
"No, it's good to have something to hate; one works it off."
"I love my things," said Rosier, as he sat there smiling. "But it's not about them—nor about yours, that I came to talk to you." He paused a moment, and then, with greater softness—"I care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!"
Madame Merle started a little.
"Did you come to tell me that?"
"I came to ask your advice."
She looked at him with a little frown, stroking her chin.
"A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice."
"Why not, if he is in a difficult position? That's often the case with a man in love. I have been in love before, and I
