parents," I said at length, rather
lamely.

"Till lately I thought so too. Listen. I will tell you the tale of all
my life. Not until to-night have I been able to put it together, and
fill in the blanks."

And this is what she told me:

"My father was travelling through Europe. He had money, and of course
he met with adventures. One of his adventures was my mother. She lived
among the vines near Avignon, in Southern France; her uncle was a
small grape-grower. She belonged absolutely to the people, but she was
extremely beautiful. I'm not exaggerating; she was. She was one of
those women that believe everything, and my father fell in love with
her. He married her properly at Avignon. They travelled together
through France and Italy, and then to Belgium. Then, in something less
than a year, I was born. She gave herself up to me entirely. She was
not clever; she had no social talents and no ambitions. No, she
certainly had not much brain; but to balance that she had a heart--so
large that it completely enveloped my father and me.

"After three years he had had enough of my mother. He got restive. He
was ambitious. He wanted to shine in London, where he was known, and
where his family had made traditions in the theatrical world. But he
felt that my mother wouldn't--wouldn't be suitable for London. Fancy
the absurdity of a man trying to make a name in London when hampered
by a wife who was practically of the peasant class! He simply left
her. Oh, it was no common case of desertion. He used his influence
over my mother to make her consent. She did consent. It broke her
heart, but hers was the sort of love that suffers, so she let him go.
He arranged to allow her a reasonable income.

"I can just remember a man who must have been my father. I was three
years old when he left us. Till then we had lived in a large house in
an old city. Can't you guess what house that was? Of course you can.
Yes, it was the house at Bruges where Alresca died. We gave up that
house, my mother and I, and went to live in Italy. Then my father sold
the house to Alresca. I only knew that to-day. You may guess my
childish recollections of Bruges aren't very distinct. It was part of
the understanding that my mother should change her name, and at Pisa
she was known as Madame Montigny. That was the only surname of hers
that I ever knew.

"As I grew older, my mother told me fairy-tales to account for the
absence of my father. She died when I was s