That lectures by Professor Moorsom were a European event and that
brilliant audiences would gather to hear them Renouard did not
know. All he was aware of was the shock of this hint of departure.
The menace of separation fell on his head like a thunderbolt. And
he saw the absurdity of his emotion, for hadn't he lived all these
days under the very cloud? The professor, his elbows spread out,
looked down into the garden and went on unburdening his mind. Yes.
The department of sentiment was directed by his daughter, and she
had plenty of volunteered moral support; but he had to look after
the practical side of life without assistance.

"I have the less hesitation in speaking to you about my anxiety,
because I feel you are friendly to us and at the same time you are
detached from all these sublimities--confound them."

"What do you mean?" murmured Renouard.

"I mean that you are capable of calm judgment. Here the atmosphere
is simply detestable. Everybody has knuckled under to sentiment.
Perhaps your deliberate opinion could influence . . ."

"You want Miss Moorsom to give it up?" The professor turned to the
young man dismally.

"Heaven only knows what I want."

Renouard leaning his back against the balustrade folded his arms on
his breast, appeared to meditate profoundly. His face, shaded
softly by the broad brim of a planter's Panama hat, with the