en do not flatter women unless they have
something to gain, whereas men often flatter them for the mere pleasure
of seeing them smile, which is an innocent pastime in itself, though
the consequences are sometimes disastrous.

Edmund Lushington had at first been wondering why Margaret was going to
Paris the next day, then he had inwardly framed several ingenious
questions which he might ask her; and then, as he thought of her, he
had forgotten himself at last, and had momentarily escaped from the
terrible and morbid obligation of putting his thoughts into unspoken
words, which is one of the torments that pursue men of letters when
they are tired, or annoyed, or distressed. He had forgotten his
troubles, too, whatever they were, and could listen to the music spring
was making in the trees, without feeling that he might be forced to
describe it.

Just then Margaret raised her eyes from her book and saw his face, and
he did not know that she was looking at him. For the first time since
she had met him she understood a little of his real nature, and guessed
the reason why he could write so well. He was a man of heart. She knew
it now, in spite of his faults, his shyness, his ridiculous
over-sensitiveness, his detestable way of blurting out cutting
speeches, his icy criticism of things he did not like. It was a
revelation. She wondered what he would say if he spoke just then.

But at that moment Mrs. Rushmore appeared on the lawn, an imposing and
rather formal figure in black and violet, against the curtain of
honeysuckle that hung down over the verandah.

CHAPTER II

Margaret went alone to the house of the famous singer, for her teacher
knew by experience that it was better not to be present on such
occasions. Margaret had not even a maid with her, for except in some
queer neighbourhoods Paris is as safe as any city in the world, and it
never occurred to her that she could need protection at her age. If she
should ever have any annoyance she could call a policeman, but she had
a firm and well-founded conviction that if a young woman looked
straight before her and held her head up as if she could take care of
herself, no one would ever molest her, from London to Pekin.

It was not very far from her teacher's rooms in the Boulevard
Malesherbes to the pretty little house Madame Bonanni had built for
herself in the Avenue Hoche; so Margaret walked. It is the pleasantest
way of getting about Paris on a May morning,