the intelligence of his features, revealing as it did
the toothless condition of his gums.

"What will madame have for her dinner tomorrow," looking benignantly
at his mistress, and still standing under his aureole.

"Do I ever give orders for one dinner, with the other one still on my
lips?"

"I only asked madame; there is no harm in asking." He walked away, his
long stiff white apron rattling like a petticoat about him. Catching
sight of the visitor still standing at the threshold: "Oh, madame,
here is Mr. Horace. Shall I let him in?"

"Idiot! Every Wednesday you ask me that question, and every Wednesday
I answer the same way. Don't you think I could tell you when not to let
him in without your asking?"

"Oh, well, madame, one never knows; it is always safe to ask."

The appearance of the gentleman started a fresh subject of excitement.

"Jules! Jules! You have left that front door unlocked again!"

"Excuse me," said Mr. Horace; "Jules did not leave the front door
unlocked. It was locked when I rang, and he locked it again most
carefully after letting me in. I have been standing outside all the
while the gas was being extinguished and relighted."

"Ah, very well, then. And what is the news?" She sank into her
arm-chair, pulled her little card-table closer, and began shuffling
the cards upon it for her game of solitaire. "I never hear any news,
you know. She [nodding toward me] goes out, but she never learns
anything. She is as stupid tonight as an empty bottle."

After a few passes her hands, which were slightly tremulous, regained
some of their wonted steadiness and brilliancy of movement, and the
cards dropped rapidly on the table. Mr. Horace, as he had got into
the habit of doing, watched her mechanically, rather absent-mindedly
retailing what he imagined would interest her, from his week's
observation and hearsay. And madame's little world revolved, complete
for her, in time, place, and personality.

It was an old-fashioned square room with long ceiling, and broad, low
windows heavily curtained with stiff silk brocade, faded by time into
mellowness. The tall white-painted mantel carried its obligation of
ornaments well: a gilt clock which under a glass case related some
brilliant poetical idyl, and told the hours only in an insignificant
aside, according to the delicate politeness of bygone French taste;
flanked by duplicate continuations of the same idyl in companion
candelabra, also under glass; Sev