words. I was utterly shamefaced. Mr. Pollingray has got the French manner
of protesting that one is all but perfect in one's speaking. I know how
absurd it must have sounded. But I felt his kindness, and in my heart I
thanked him humbly. I believe now that a residence in France does not
deteriorate an Englishman. Mr. Pollingray, when in his own house, has the
best qualities of the two countries. He is gay, and, yes, while he makes
a study of me, I am making a study of him. Which of us two will know the
other first? He was papa's college friend--papa's junior, of course, and
infinitely more papa's junior now. I observe that weakness in him, I
mean, his clinging to youthfulness, less and less; but I do see it, I
cannot be quite in error. The truth is, I begin to feel that I cannot
venture to mistrust my infallible judgement, or I shall have no
confidence in myself at all.

After breakfast, I was handed over to Miss Pollingray, with the
intimation that I should not see him till dinner.

'Gilbert is anxious to cultivate the society of his English neighbours,
now that he has, as he supposes, really settled among them,' she remarked
to me. 'At his time of life, the desire to be useful is almost a malady.
But, he cherishes the poor, and that is more than an occupation, it is a
virtue.'

Her speech has become occasionally French in the construction of the
sentences.

'Mais oui,' I said shyly, and being alone with her, I was not rebuffed by
her smile, especially as she encouraged me on.

I am, she told me, to see a monde of French people here in September. So,
the story of me is to be completer, or continued in September. I could
not get Miss Pollingray to tell me distinctly whether Madame la Marquise
will be one of the guests. But I know that she is not a widow. In that
case, she has a husband. In that case, what is the story of her relations
towards Mr. Pollingray? There must be some story. He would not surely
have so many portraits of her about the house (and they travel with him
wherever he goes) if she were but a lovely face to him. I cannot
understand it. They were frequent, constant visitors to one another's
estates in France; always together. Perhaps a man of Mr. Pollingray's
age, or perhaps M. le Marquis--and here I lose myself. French habits are
so different from ours. One thing I am certain of: no charge can be
brought against my Englishman. I read perfect rectitude in his face. I
would cast anchor by him. He mu