which, I fear, may make my position a difficult one. Among the whist-
players was a Mlle. de Porhoet-Gael, eighty-eight years of age and full
of strange crotchets. The last descendant of the noblest of Breton
families, she lived, so Madame Laroque told me, on an income of forty
pounds a year, her fortune having been spent in vainly fighting for the
succession to a great estate in Spain. She was talking about it to her
partner when I came up.

"The estate belongs to me," she was saying. "My father told me so a
hundred times, and the persons who are trying to take it from me have no
more connection with my family than this handsome young gentleman has."

And she designated me with a look and a movement of her head. No doubt
she did not mean to imply that because I was a steward I was of mean
birth; but I was stung by her remark, and forgetting myself, I replied
rather sharply, "You are mistaken, madam, in thinking that I am
unrelated to your family."

"You will have to prove that to me, young man."

Confused and ashamed, I withdrew into the corner and tried to talk to
Mlle. Hélouin about poetry and art, but at last, upset and distracted, I
arose and walked out of the room. Mlle. de Porhoet followed me.

"Monsieur Odiot," she said, "would you mind seeing me home? My servant
has not arrived, and I am growing too feeble now to walk without help."

Naturally, I went with her.

"What did you mean," she said, as we walked on together, "by claiming to