"But, monsieur, I must always have a home, a lodging, a something to live in," said Pauline with a shrug.
"Yes, of course," said John Calverley, rather absently; for at that moment a notable plan had suggested itself to him, and he was revolving it in his mind. "Where are you living now, Madame Du Tertre?"
"I have a lodging--a bed-room--in Poland-street," she replied.
"Dear me," said John Calverley, in horrified amazement. "Poland-street? I know, of course; back of the Pantheon--very stuffy and grimy, children playing battledore and shuttlecock in the street, organ-men and fish-barrows, and all that kind of thing; not at all pleasant."
"No," said Pauline, with a repetition of her shrug; "but beggars have no choice, as the proverb says."
"Did it ever occur to you," said John nervously, "that you might become a companion to a lady--quite comfortable, you know, and well treated, made one of the family, in point of fact?" he added, again recurring to the advertisement formula.
Pauline's eyes glistened at once, but her voice was quite calm as she said: "I have never thought of such a thing. I don't know whether I should like it. It would, of course, depend upon the family."
"Of course," assented John. "I was thinking of-- Do you play the piano, Madame Du Tertre?"
"O yes, sufficiently well."
"Ah," said John unconsciously, "some of it does go a long way. Well, I was thinking that perhaps--"