id Dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the little
note upon his desk, "is Madame de Courcelles. She is a very charming and
accomplished lady."

I decided in my own mind that Madame de Courcelles was the writer of
that note.

"Is she married?" was my next question.

"She is a widow," replied Dalrymple. "Monsieur de Courcelles was many
years older than his wife, and held office as a cabinet minister during
the greater part of the reign of Louis Phillippe. He has been dead these
four or five years."

"Then she is rich?"

"No--not rich; but sufficiently independent."

"And handsome?"

"Not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating."

Graceful, fascinating, independent, and a widow! Coupling these facts
with the correspondence which I believed I had detected, I grouped them
into a little romance, and laid out my friend's future career as
confidently as if it had depended only on myself to marry him out of
hand, and make all parties happy.

Dalrymple sat musing for a moment, with his chin resting on his hands
and his eyes fixed on the desk. Then shaking back his hair as if he
would shake back his thoughts with it, he started suddenly to his feet
and said, laughingly:--

"Now, young Damon, to Michaud's--to Michaud's, with what speed we may!
Farewell to 'Tempe and the vales of Arcady,' and hey for civilization,
and a swallow-tailed coat!"

I noticed, however, that before we left the room, he put the little note
tenderly away in a drawer of his desk, and locked it with a tiny gold
key that hung upon his watch-chain.

CHAPTER XIII.

I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY.

At ten o'clock on Monday evening, Dalrymple called for me, and by ten
o'clock, thanks to the great Michaud and other men of genius, I
presented a faultless exterior. My friend walked round me with a candle,
and then sat down and examined me critically.

"By Jove!" said he, "I don't believe I should have known you! You are a
living testimony to the science of tailoring. I shall call on Michaud,
to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration."

"I am very uncomfortable," said I, ruefully.

"Uncomfortable! nonsense--Michaud's customers don't know the meaning of
the word."

"But he has not made me a single pocket!"

"And what of that? Do you suppose the great Michaud would spoil the fit
of a masterpiece for your convenience?"

"What am I to do with my pocket-handkerchief?"

"Michaud's customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs."