LOWLY the afternoon wore away. My content had given place to urgent impatience, and I longed every moment for the summons to action. None came; and a quarter to five I went downstairs, hoping to find some means of whiling away the interval of time. Pushing open the door of the little salle-à-manger, I was presented with a back view of my host M. Bontet, who was leaning out of the window. Just as I entered, he shouted “Ready at six!” Then he turned swiftly round, having, I suppose, heard my entrance; at the same moment, the sound of a door violently slammed struck on my ear across the yard. I moved quickly up to the window. The stable door was shut; and Bontet faced me with a surly frown on his brow.

“What is to be ready at six?” I asked.

“Some refreshments for Mme. Delhasse,” he answered readily.

“You order refreshments from the stable?”

“I was shouting to the scullery: the door is, as you will perceive, sir, there to the left.”

Now I knew that this was a lie, and I might