leged
inmate. Madame ate with good appetite, pleased by the attention shown
her, and a little annoyed at being, as it were, socially isolated for
want of English. As she rose she told her son that she had a long letter
she must write to Cousin Rochefoucauld, and would he ask Mr. Wynne how
it might be sent. Then Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come to my room.
There we may smoke, or in the garden, not elsewhere. There is here a
despotism; you will need to be careful."

"Do not believe him," said the Pearl. "Mother would let him smoke in
meeting, if she were overseer."

"Margaret, Margaret, thou art saucy. That comes of being with the
Willing girls and Gainor, who is grown old in sauciness--world's
people!" and her eyebrows went up, so that whether she was quite in
earnest or was the prey of some sudden jack-in-the-box of pure humor, De
Courval did not know. It was all fresh, interesting, and somehow
pleasant. Were all Quakers like these?

He followed Schmidt into his sitting-room, where his host closed the
door. "Sit down," he said. "Not there. These chairs are handsome. I keep
them to look at and for the occasional amendment of slouching manners.
Five minutes will answer. But here are two of my own contrivance,
democratic, vulgar, and comfortable. Ah, do you smoke? Yes, a pipe. I
like that. I should have been disappointed if you were not a user of the
pipe. I am going to talk, to put you in _pays de connaissance_, as you
would say. And now for comments! My acquaintance of five years,--or five
minutes, was it, that I was under water?--may justify the unloading of
my baggage of gossip on a man whom I have benefited by the chance of
doing a good deed, if so it be--or a kind one at least. You shall learn
in a half hour what otherwise might require weeks."

De Courval, amused at the occasional quaintness of the English, which he
was one day to have explained, blew rings of smoke and listened.

"I shall be long, but it will help you and save questions."

"Pray go on, sir. I shall be most thankful."

"_Imprimis_, there is Mrs. Swanwick, born in the Church of England, if
any are born in church--Cyrilla Plumstead. She was brought up in luxury,
which came to an end before they married her to a stiff Quaker man who
departed this life with reasonable kindness, after much discipline of
his wife in ways which sweeten many and sour some. She has held to it
loyally--oh, more or less. That is the setting of our Pearl, a creature
of