"Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?"

"Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our hotel.
He said, 'Come to my boarding-house. Out of Paris, there isn't such a
table d'hote in France.' I tried to get off it--not caring, as you know,
to go among strangers--I said I had a friend with me. He invited you
most cordially to accompany me. More excuses on my part only led to a
painful result. I hurt Peterkin's feelings. 'I'm down in the world,'
he said, 'and I'm not fit company for you and your friends. I beg your
pardon for taking the liberty of inviting you!' He turned away with the
tears in his eyes. What could I do?"

I thought to myself, "You could have lent him five pounds, and got rid
of his invitation without the slightest difficulty." If I had returned
in reasonable time to go out with Romayne, we might not have met the
captain--or, if we had met him, my presence would have prevented the
confidential talk and the invitation that followed. I felt I was to
blame--and yet, how could I help it? It was useless to remonstrate: the
mischief was done.

We left the Old Town on our right hand, and drove on, past a little
colony of suburban villas, to a house standing by itself, surrounded by
a stone wall. As we crossed the front garden on our way to the door,
I noticed against the side of the house two kennels, inhabited by two
large watch-dogs. Was the proprietor afraid of thieves?

III.

THE moment we were introduced to the drawing-room, my suspicions of the