Endymion Westcote meanwhile had picked up a small book which lay face
downward on one of the step-ladders.

"So here is the source of your inspiration? said he. An _Ovid_? How it
brings up old school-days At Winchester--old swishings, too, General,
hey?" He held the book open and studied the Ariadne on the wall.

"The source of my inspiration indeed, M. le Commissaire! But you will
not find Ariadne in that text, which contains only the _Tristia_."

"Ah, but, I told you my classics were a bit rusty," replied the
Commissary. He made the round of the walls and commended, in his breezy
way, each separate panel. "You must take my criticisms for what they
are worth, M. Raoul. But my grandmother was a Frenchwoman, and that
gives me a kind of--sympathy, shall we say? Moreover, I know what I
like."

Dorothea, accustomed to regard her brother as a demigod, caught herself
blushing for him. She was angry with herself. She caught M. Raoul's
murmur, "Heaven distributes to us our talents, Monsieur," and was angry
with him, understanding and deprecating the raillery beneath his
perfectly correct attitude. He kept this attitude to the end. When the
time came for parting, he bent over her hand and whispered again:

"But it was kind of Mademoiselle not to report me."

She heard. It set up a secret understanding between them, which she
resented. There was nothing to say, again; yet she had found no way
of rebuking him, she was angry with herself all the way home.