a man want to be married. If I knew another such,
I should certainly bring her to Clos-Jallanges, and I am sure you would
love her. But do not be alarmed. There are not many of them; and we
shall go on to the end, living just by our two selves, as we do now.

Before we parted we fixed another meeting for Thursday, not at their
house at Neuilly, but at the studio on the Quai d'Orsay, where the
whole family spend the day together. This studio would seem to be the
strangest place. It is in a corner of the old Cour des Comptes. He has
got permission to do his work there, in the midst of wild vegetation and
mouldering heaps of stone. As I went away I turned to watch them walking
along the quay, father, mother, and children, all enveloped in the
calm light of the setting sun, which made a halo round them like a Holy
Family. Strung together a few lines on the subject in the evening at my
hotel; but I am put out by having neighbours, and do not like to spout.
I want my large study at Jallanges, with its three windows looking out
oh the river and the sloping vineyards.

And now we come to _Wednesday_, the great day and the great event!
I will tell you the story in full. I confess that I had been looking
forward to my call on the Astiers with much trepidation, which increased
to-day as I went up the broad moist steps of the staircase in the Rue de
Beaune. What was I going to hear said about my book? Would my old master
have had time to glance at it? His opinion means for me so very much. He
inspires me still with the same awe as when I was in his class, and in
his presence I shall always feel myself a schoolboy. His unerring and
impartial judgment must be that of the awarders of the prize. So you may
guess the tortures of impatience which I underwent in the master's large
study, which he gives up to his wife for her reception.

It's sadly different from the room at the Foreign Office. The table
at which he writes is pushed away into a recess behind a great screen
covered in old tapestry, which also hides part of the bookshelves.
Opposite, in the place of honour, is a portrait of Madame Astier in
her young days, wonderfully like her son, and also like old Rehu, whose
acquaintance I have just had the honour of making. The portrait has a
somewhat depressing air of elegance, cold and polished, like the large
uncarpeted room itself, with its sombre curtains and its outlook on
a still more sombre courtyard. But in comes Madame Astier,