this loyalty would be a source of irritation to him again, as it had been in the past), but he perceived, all the same, that she had not forgotten. She raised no difficulty, and a few moments later, while they stood in an adjacent salon (he had stopped to admire a bust of Effie, wonderfully living, slim and juvenile, the work of one of the sculptors who are the pride of contemporary French art), he said to her, looking about him, 'How has she done it so fast?'
'Done what, Raymond?'
'Why, done everything. Collected all these wonderful things; become intimate with Madame de Brives and every one else; organised her life—the life of all of you—so brilliantly.'
'I have never seen mamma in a hurry,' Dora replied.
'Perhaps she will be, now that I have come,' Raymond suggested, laughing.
The girl hesitated a moment 'Yes, she was, to invite you—the moment she knew you were here.'
'She has been most kind, and I talk like a brute. But I am liable to do worse—I give you notice. She won't like it any more than she did before, if she thinks I want to make up to you.'
'Don't, Raymond—don't!' the girl exclaimed, gently, but with a look of sudden pain.
'Don't what, Dora?—don't make up to you?'
'Don't begin to talk of those things. There is no need. We can go on being friends.'
'I will do exactly as you prescribe, and heaven forbid I should annoy you. But would you mind answering me a question? It is very particular, very intimate.' He stopped, and she only looked at him, saying nothing. So he went on: 'Is it an idea of
