Savarin was one of those women with large-lobed ears, who can be
wonderfully affectionate, wonderfully sensible, admirable wives and
mothers, and yet are deficient in artistic sympathies with artistic
natures. Still, a really good honest wife is such an incalculable
blessing to her lord, that, at the end of the talk in the solitary alley,
this man of exquisite finesse, of the undefinably high-bred temperament,
and, alas! the painful morbid susceptibility, which belongs to the
genuine artistic character, emerged into the open sunlit lawn with his
crest uplifted, his lip curved upward in its joyous mockery, and
perfectly persuaded that somehow or other he should put down the
offensive publisher, and pay off the unoffending creditor when the day
for payment came. Still he had judgment enough to know that to do this
he must get back to Paris, and could not dawdle away precious hours in
discussing the principles of poetry with Graham Vane.

There was only one thing, apart from "the begging-hat," in which Savarin
dissented from his wife.--She suggested his starting a new journal in
conjunction with Gustave Rameau, upon whose genius and the expectations
to be formed from it (here she was tacitly thinking of Isaura wedded to
Rameau, and more than a Malibran on the stage) she insisted vehemently.
Savarin did not thus estimate Gustave Rameau, thought him a clever,
promising young writer in a very bad school of writing, who might do well
some day or other. But that a Rameau could help a Savarin to make a
fortune! No; at that idea he opened his eyes, patted his wife's
shoulder, and called her "enfant."

Graham's letter was from M. Renard, and ran thus:--

MONSIEUR,--I had the honour to call at your apartment this morning,
and I write this line to the address given to me by your concierge