mind of the contented man, incense mounting through the nimbus of
a saint. She affected solicitude lest the life-blood of my
intelligence should be pouring out through my cut finger. No, I
am convinced that the _recueillement_ (that beautiful French word
for which we have no English equivalent, meaning the gathering of
the soul together within itself) of the rue Boissy d'Anglais is
the very happiest delusion wherewith Judith has hitherto deluded
herself. I am glad, exceedingly glad. Her temperament--I have
got reconciled to her affliction--craves the gaiety which London
denies her.

"And when are you going?" I asked.

"To-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Why not? I wired Delphine this morning. I had to go out to get
something for lunch " (my conviction, it appears, was right),
"and I thought I might as well take an omnibus to Charing Cross
and send a telegram."

"But when are you going to pack?"

"I did that last night. I didn't get to bed till four this
morning. I only made up my mind after you had gone," she added,
in anticipation of a possible question.

It is better that we are not married. These sudden resolutions
would throw my existence out of gear. My moral upheaval would be