ly began four days
ago."

"What was his employment till then?"

"Why, none," said I.

It seemed absurd for Paragot to have employment like a man behind a
shop-counter. I remembered acquaintances of my mother's who were "out of
employment" and their unspeakable vileness. Then, echo of Paragot (for
what else could I be?), I added: "We just walk about Europe for the sake
of my education. My master said I was to learn Life from the Book of the
Universe."

The lovely lady sat down.

"I believe you are nothing more nor less than an amazing little parrot.
I'm sure you speak exactly like your master."

"Oh, no, Mademoiselle," said I modestly, "I wish I could. There is no
one who can talk like him in all the world."

She gave me a long, steady, half-frightened look out of her blue eyes. I
know now that I had struck a chord of memory; that I had established
beyond question in her mind Paragot's identity with the man who had
loved her in days past; that old things sweet and terrifying surged
within her heart. Even then, holding their secret, I saw that she had
recognised Paragot.

"You must think me a very inquisitive lady," she said, with a forced
smile; "but you must forgive me. What you said this morning about your
master teaching you philosophy interested me greatly. One thing I should
like to know," and she dug at the gravel with the point of her parasol,
"and that I hardly like to ask. Is he--are you--very poor?"

"Poor?" It was a totally new idea. "Why, no, Mademoiselle; he has a
great bank in London which sends him bank-notes whenever he wants them.
I once went with him. He has heaps of money."

The lady rose. "So this going about as a mountebank is only a
masquerade," she said, with a touch of scorn.

"He did it to help Blanquette," said I.

"Blanquette?"

"The girl who plays the zither. My master has adopted her too."

"Oh, has he?" said the lady, the blue of her eyes becoming frosty again.
I dimly perceived that in mentioning Blanquette I had been indiscreet.
In what respect, I know not. I had intended my remark to be a tribute to
Paragot's wide-heartedness. She took it as if I had told her of a crime.
Women, even the loveliest of dream Joannas, are a mystifying race.
"_Bien heureux qui rien n'y a._"

"Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye, Mademoiselle."

She must have read mortification in my face, for she turned after a step
or two, and said more kindly.

"You're not responsible, anyway." Then she pa