“Oh, I shall be so pleased to meet her,” said Bertha. “You say she is a little woman.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clarence, with enthusiasm. “I can take her right in my arms and carry her about. I don’t think she weighs more than eight stone and perhaps not so much. But she wants to know what part of Paris your friend lives in. She has been there and knows the city pretty well.”
“I will let her have my new friend’s letter,” said Bertha. “It will be safer with her anyway. Here it is,” and she took it from her bosom. “You may read it.”
Clarence availed himself of her permission.
“My Dear Little Girl:
“I have just learned in a roundabout way, which I shall not take time to explain here, that the only child of one who was a very dear friend of mine years ago, Mr. Oscar Renville, is living in England and is a ward of Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I do not remember your Christian name and for that reason have directed this letter simply to Miss Renville. I remember you when you were a little girl; that is why I began this letter as I have. When your father used to bring you to see me, he called you by some pet name which might or might not have been your own, but which, as I said before, I have forgotten. I have not forgotten you, however. I am a widow with one son, nearly twenty-two. I was married when quite young and am not yet forty; so you see I am not yet an old woman and shall not be such bad company, after all, for a young girl of eighteen. I shall be delighted to have you come to Paris and stay with me as long as your guardian will allow. On the outside it is a beautiful city; under the crust there is a great deal of wickedness, but we shall keep away from that and look for the goodness which I know, too, is here. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Glynne, and tell him that I shall be pleased to have him as my guest, for I presume he will accompany you to Paris. I live at Number 22, Rue St. Francis. Every cab-driver in Paris knows where it is and there are many people in this city who know your loving friend,
“Marie, Countess Mont d’Oro.”
The transportation of Bertha’s wardrobe from Buckholme to Clarence’s lodgings was carried on without causing any suspicion in the mind of the elder Mr. Glynne and a day was fixed for her departure.
Jennie suggested that Mr. De Vinne should know that Bertha was going to Paris.
“He may be there now,” said her husband. “I have seen no notice in the paper of his brother’s funeral. I will send him a wire; that’s the best way.”