months ago,
and which she still knew by heart; but nothing in the author's voice or
look indicated a desire to remind her of that romantic passage in their
acquaintance. If they were still to meet from time to time--and why
not?--common sense must succeed to vain thoughts in the poet's mind. He
was quite capable of the transition, she felt sure. His way of talking,
the short and generally pointed sentences in which he spoke on whatever
subject, betokened a habit of lucid reflection. Had it been
permissible, she would have dwelt with curiosity on the problem of
Piers Otway's life and thoughts; but that she resolutely ignored,
strong in the irrevocable choice which she had made only yesterday. He
was interesting, but not to her. She knew him on the surface, and cared
to know no more.

Business was a safe topic; at the first noticeable pause, Irene led to
it.

Piers laughed with pleasure as he began to describe Andre Moncharmont.
A man of the happiest vivacity, of the sweetest humour, irresistibly
amusing, yet never ridiculous--entirely competent in business, yet with
a soul as little mercantile as man's could be. Born a French Swiss, he
had lived a good deal in Italy, and had all the charm of Italian
manners; but in whatever country, he made himself at home, and by
virtue of his sunny temper saw only the best in each nationality. His
recreation was music, and he occasionally composed.

"There is a song of Musset's--you know it, perhaps--beginning '_Quand
on perd, par triste occurrence_'--which he has set, to my mind,
perfectly. I want him to publish it. If he does I must let you see it."

Irene did not know the verses and made no remark.

"There are English men of business," pursued Otway, "who would smile
with pity at Moncharmont. He is by no means their conception of the
merchant. Yet the world would be a vastly better place if its business
were often in the hands of such men. He will never make a large
fortune, no; but he will never fall into poverty. He sees commerce from
the human point of view, not as the brutal pitiless struggle which
justifies every form of ferocity and of low cunning. I never knew him
utter an ignoble thought about trade and money-making. An English
acquaintance asked me once, 'Is he a gentleman?' I was obliged to
laugh--delicious contrast between what _he_ meant by a gentleman and
all I see in Moncharmont."

"I picture him," said Irene, smiling, "and I picture the person who
made that in