bent upon doing away with men, as far as the exigencies of human nature would permit. The professor, overhearing this, remarked that if in that wretched Albion there were many décadent poets, no wonder women became masculine.
As regards the Barings, it cannot be denied that the prospect of their departure was supported with fortitude. The other boarders seldom saw the Americans but at meal-times, and then they were regarded much like the cruet-stand in the centre of the table, supposed to contain oil, vinegar, and pepper, but practically useless. Those condiments were passed up and down and across the table: the decorative cruet-stand was never touched. Miss Baring could not be said to be decorative, but her small contribution to the social food was always oil—oil, rarely sharpened by the faintest dash of vinegar. Her brother was known to contain pepper—and red pepper, too—with which, on rare occasions, he had sprinkled the audience. But, as a rule, the stopper from the bottle was not removed. He bore in stolid silence with the conversation of men whom he could not respect, and one woman for whom he had a profound contempt. His remaining here so long had been a matter of necessity; his departure was, as regarded the pension, as much a relief to himself as to the society around him.
One day, a fortnight later, Monsieur Melchior called at Madame Martineau's. There, by a series of adroit inquiries, he elicited three facts. Miss Shaw had left Paris. Mr. Baring and his invalid sister had been inmates of the same pension. The three friends had gone together to Mentone.
