ascertained ancestors, and a part of the earth's surface, and much money,
and that the concierge's wife possessed nothing but herself and a few bits
of furniture, was not of the slightest importance.

The concierge's wife, after curiosity concerning tennis, grew confidential
about herself, and more confidential. And at last she lowered her tones,
and with sparkling eyes communicated information to Audrey in a voice that
was little more than a whisper.

"Oh! truly? I must go," hastily said Audrey, blushing, and off she ran,
reduced in an instant to the schoolgirl. Her departure was a retreat.
These occasional discomfitures made a faint blot on the excellence of being
a widow.



CHAPTER XIII

THE SWOON


In the north-east corner of the Luxembourg Gardens, where the lawn-tennis
courts were permitted by a public authority which was strangely impartial
and cosmopolitan in the matter of games, Miss Ingate sat sketching a group
of statuary with the Rue de Vaugirard behind it. She was sketching in the
orthodox way, on the orthodox stool, with the orthodox combined paint-box
and easel, and the orthodox police permit in the cover of the box.

The bright and warm weather was tonic; it accounted for the whole
temperament of Parisians. Under such a sky, with such a delicate pricking