“Come, uncle, we are people of the world, are we not?” said the marquise, with a rather comical smile. “We have all made our little mistakes; I don’t mean to annihilate you; but I happen to know all about Raffett’s, and have a fancy to make you pay my dowry; not that I need the money, but because I dote upon abstract justice. Let us be good friends. ‘Birds in their little nests agree;’ and so should uncle and niece. You may come and pay your respects to me to-morrow, if you like—if you can control the impatience that was consuming you ten minutes ago! I have several things to talk over with you. I have taken a house in Red Lion Square for the present; London will not hear of me until next winter. I am only just become a disconsolate widow, and mean to behave accordingly.”
Sir Francis sighed, with the air of a man who resigns himself to the rigor of fate.
“And you are really going to remain in England?” he said.
“As long as it amuses me. Paris is dull without the emperor. Besides—but you shall hear the rest to-morrow.” She rose to go.
At this juncture Catnip tapped at the door and put in his head.
“A gentleman to see you, Sir Francis.”
“What is his name?”
“Mr. John Grant, Sir Francis.”
“Who?”
“Mr. John Grant, Sir Francis.”