Miss Anne Honeywood with her ninety pounds a
year, what can she do? Pouf! It is for me to look after the future of
little Jean."

By means of such discourse he convinced Miss Anne that Jean was
predestined to greatness and that Providence had appointed him,
Aristide, as the child's agent in advance. Very much bewildered by his
riotous flow of language and very reluctant to sacrifice her woman's
pride, she agreed to allow him to contribute towards Jean's upbringing.

"Dear Miss Anne," said he, "it is my right. It is Jean's right. You
would love to put him on top of the pinnacle of fame, would you not?"

"Of course," said Miss Anne.

"_Eh bien!_ we will work together. You will give him what can be given
by a beautiful and exquisite woman, and I will do all that can be done
by the accredited agent of Dulau et Compagnie, Wine Shippers of
Bordeaux."

So, I repeat, Aristide was entirely happy. His waking dreams were of the
four-year-old child. The glad anticipation of the working day in Great
Tower St., E. C., was the evening welcome from the simple but capable
gentlewoman and the sense of home and intimacy in her little parlour no
bigger than the never-entered and nerve-destroying salon of his parents
at Aigues Mortes, but smiling with the grace of old oak and faded
chintz. At Aigues Mortes the salon was a comfortless, tasteless
convention, set apart for the celebrations of baptisms and marriages and
deaths, a pride and a terror to the inhabitants. But here everything
seemed to be as much a warm bit of Anne Honeywood as the tortoise-shell
comb in her hair and the square of Brussels lace that rose and fell on
the bosom of her old evening frock. For, you see, since she expected a
visitor in the evenings, Anne had taken to dressing for her sketch of a
dinner. For all her struggle with poverty she had retained the charm
that four years before had made her touch upon Jean seem a consecration
to the impressionable man. And now that he entered more deeply into her
life and thoughts, he found himself in fragrant places that were very
strange to him. He discovered, too, with some surprise, that a man who
has been at fierce grips with Fortune all his life from ten to forty is
ever so little tired in spirit and is glad to rest. In the tranquility
of Anne Honeywood's presence his soul was singularly at peace. He also
wondered why Anne Honeywood seemed to grow younger, and, in her gentle
fashion, more laughter-loving, every day.