LIKE all cultivated people, particularly those who attach much importance to pleasure and amusement, variety, art, and the play, Nigel was very fond of Paris; it always pleased him to go there; and yet he doubted if he were quite as fond of it in reality as he was in theory. The best acting, the best cooking, the best millinery in the world was to be found in Paris; and yet Nigel wasn’t sure that he didn’t enjoy those things more when he got them in London—that he enjoyed French cooking best in an English restaurant, and even a French play at an English theatre. Certainly Paris was the centre of art. Nigel was fond of pictures, and he amused himself more with a few young French artists whom he happened to know living here than with anybody else in the city; and yet when he went back to London he sometimes felt that the recollection of it, the chatter of studios, the slang of the critics, even the whole sense and sound of Paris gave him a little the recollection as of a huge cage of monkeys. Like most modern Englishmen, he talked disparagingly about British hypocrisy, Anglo-Saxon humbug, English stiffness and London fog; and yet, after all, he missed and valued these very things. Wasn’t the fog and the hypocrisy—one was the symbol of the other—weren’t all these things the very charm of London? Fog and hypocrisy—that is to say, shadow, convention, decency—these were the very things that lent to London its poetry and romance.

Everything in Paris, it was true, was picturesque, everything had colour and form, everything made a picture. But it was all too obvious; everything was all there ready for one’s amusement, ready for one’s pleasure. People were too obliging, too willing. And the men! Well, Nigel was far more of a viveur, of a lover of pleasure than ninety-nine Englishmen out of a hundred, yet he found too much of that point of view among the men he came across in Paris. From boys to old gentlemen, from the artists to a certain set among the haute finance—of whom he had some acquaintances—from the sporting young sprig of the Faubourg to the son of the sham jeweller in the Rue de Rivoli—all, without a single exception, seemed to think of nothing else but pleasure, in other words, of les petites femmes. For that—paying attention more or less serious to les petites femmes—seemed the one real idea of pleasure. Of this point of view Nigel certainly grew very tired, and he marvelled at the wonderful energy, the unflagging interest in the same eternal subject.

They said, and of course thought, that there was nothing so charming as a French woman, particularly the Parisienne; but, except on one point, he was not entirely inclined to agree. This point was their dress. Their dress was delightful, their fashion was an art, and it had great, real charm. In whatever walk of life they were placed they were always exquisitely dressed. Nigel appreciated this sartorial gift, it was an art he understood and that amused, but weren’t they on the whole—also in every walk of life—a little too much arranged, overdone, too much maquillÉes; weren’t their faces too white, their lips too red, their hats too new? They knew how to put on their clothes to perfection, but he was not sure that he didn’t prefer these beautiful clothes not quite so well put on; he thought he liked to see the pretty French dress put on a little wrong on a pretty Englishwoman; and then he thought of Bertha, of course. Nowhere in Paris was there anything quite like Bertha, that pink and white English complexion, that abundant fair hair, the natural flower-like look.Of course Bertha was unusually clever, lively and charming; she was not stiff or prim, she was very exceptional, but distinctly English, and he admired her more than all the Parisiennes in the world. Besides, he thought, one got very tired of them. When they were bourgeoises they were so extremely bourgeoises; when they were smart they were so excessively snob. Perhaps it was through having seen a good deal of them for a little while that he met a compatriot of his with unexpected gratification.

He was walking with one of his artist friends on the boulevard when, to his great surprise, the artist was stopped by a young lady walking alone who evidently knew him. She was dressed in a very tight blue serge coat and skirt, she had black bandeaux of hair over her ears, from which depended imitation coral ear-rings. She had shoes with white spats, and a very small hat squashed over her eyes. She did not look in the least French. He knew her at once. It was the girl whose artistic education Rupert had at one time undertaken. It was Moona Chivvey.

“Ah! Miss Chivvey! What a pleasure! And what are you doing here?”

She replied that she and her friend, Mimsie Sutton, had taken a little studio and were studying art together with a number of other English and American girls with a great artist.

Nigel’s friend left his arm and went away. Nigel strolled on with Miss Chivvey.

“And are you here quite alone with no chaperon,” asked Nigel, with that momentary sort of brotherly feeling of being shocked that an Englishman nearly always feels when he sees a compatriot behaving unconventionally in a foreign land.

“Chaperon! Oh! come off the roof,” replied the young lady in her boisterous manner, which he saw had not at all toned down. “Of course I’m being chaperoned by Miss Sutton. I’m staying with Mimsie. Mother couldn’t come, and didn’t want me to come, but there’s no hope of learning art in London; it’s simply hopeless. You see we’re serious, Mr. Hillier, we’re studying really hard. We’re going to do big things. Mimsie’s a genius. I’m not; but I’m industrious. I’m a tremendous worker. Oh, I shall do something yet!”

She was full of fire and enthusiasm, and continued to give him an immense quantity of information. He listened with interest and thought it rather touching. Of course she was genuine and believed in herself; equally, of course, she had no sort of talent. She was in a position in which no girl in her own class could be placed who was not English, except an American, and then it wouldn’t be the same thing. No doubt she knew thoroughly well how to take care of herself, and most likely there was no need, even, that she should. Still, he thought it was rather pathetic that she should leave her parents and a thoroughly comfortable home in Camden Hill, in order to live in a wretchedly uncomfortable studio—he was sure it was wretchedly uncomfortable—and have a dull life with other depressing girls—all for the cultivation of a gift that was purely imaginary.

“You must come and dine with me to-night, won’t you, Miss Chivvey?”

She was rather pretty, rather amusing, and she was English. He liked talking English again.

“Well, I should like to very much, Mr. Hillier. Is your wife here?”

“No; she’s going to Felixtowe in a week or two with the children, and I’m going to join her there. I’m quite alone, so you must take pity on me. Must we have your friend Miss Sutton too?” he asked.

“Oh no—I don’t think it’s necessary; it will be a change to go out without her. You see, here I am a worker and a Bohemian,” she explained. “I don’t go in for chaperons. I’m not social here!”“Besides, I’m English. You’re all right with me,” he returned in his most charming way. “Have you many English friends here?”

He wanted to find out whether she was seeing Rupert; he soon discovered she was not, and he determined not to tell her of the presence of that young man. They might make it up, and Nigel thought it would be far better for Rupert to come back to Madeline. He was sure she was his real taste. And he still wanted to please Bertha.

They dined in a small but particularly excellent restaurant. She seemed to enjoy herself immensely, and grew every moment more confidential. Nigel tried not to flirt. He had no intention of doing so, and, had they met in London, would not have dreamt of such a thing; but meeting an English girl placed as she was gave a tinge of adventure and romance to his taking her out.

She told him she had no flirtations and cared for no man in the world. He then led the conversation gradually to Rupert Denison. It did not take long for her to work herself up to give him a somewhat highly coloured version of their quarrel, which amused him. It ended with “and so I never saw him again.”“I can’t see that you have any real grievance, I must say. He seems to have been very nice to you, taken you out a great deal, and gone to see you pretty often. Did he not make love to you?”

“Never, never, never,” she replied. “He was just like a brother, or, rather, a sort of schoolmaster.”

“Then I believe that’s what made you angry,” he replied.

“Indeed it isn’t. At any rate, if it was a little, I assure you I’m not in love with him.”

He laughed, teased her about it, and now he found that she wished to go home. Feeling he ought not to take advantage of her position here, he was exceedingly respectful, and drove her to her flat, not before she had consented to dine and go to the theatre with him the next day.

“That sort of girl is rather difficult to understand,” he thought, as he drove away from the studio. “Perhaps now she’s thinking me a fool as she thought Rupert.”

However, he remembered he was married. He looked forward to the next evening with interest. At least Miss Chivvey was different from other people. One wasn’t quite sure of her, and that fact had its attraction. She was really very good-looking too, very young, had beautiful eyes and teeth, and the high spirits of youth and health and enthusiasm. Pity she thought she could draw. How much better if she had gone in for first-rate plain cooking! He was sure she could learn that—if it was really plain.

Next day he sent her a few flowers. After all, an Englishman must be gallant to his country-woman; but the next evening he thought she met him with a slightly cooler air and even with a little embarrassment. This melted away before the end of the evening.

He then took her to the theatre in a little box. He was careful to choose a piece that he would have taken his own sister to see, but he forgot that he would not have let his own sister go to see it with a married man and no chaperon.

His manner was becoming a shade more tender than was necessary, and he was sitting perhaps a shade nearer to her than was absolutely required, when, looking up, he saw two young men in the stalls, one of whom was looking at him and his companion with very great interest through an opera-glass. It was Rupert.

Moona had not seen him, and Nigel now became aware of a distinct anxiety that she should not. He was rather sorry he had come: it might give Rupert a mistaken impression. It was not right to compromise her. He would explain, of course, the next day. But it was annoying to have to explain, and he would have explained anyhow. Nigel greatly disliked getting the credit, or, rather, the discredit, of something he did not deserve.

He pretended to be bored with the play, and persuaded her to come and have an ice at a quiet and respectable place before she saw Rupert. She went in high spirits and great innocence.

When they left Nigel said: “Do you know that I oughtn’t to have taken you there to-night? It was wrong of me. If anyone had seen us there they would probably have mistaken our relations.”

She gave her boisterous laugh and said: “I see. Well, you would have had all the credit and none of the trouble.”

“You mean,” he replied, “that I should have had all the infamy and none of the satisfaction.”

As they drove to the studio he took her hand and said: “One kiss.”

“Certainly not,” she replied, taking it away. “Certainly not. Do you want me to be sorry I came out with you?”

“I should like you to be glad,” he replied. “Never mind, Miss Chivvey, forgive me. I won’t ask you out again.”

“Why not? Haven’t I been nice?”“Very nice. Too nice, too charming, too dangerous.” He kissed her hand respectfully. “Good-bye. I’m angry with myself.”

“Never mind, I’ll forgive you,” she laughed flippantly.

He drove away. Yes, one loses one’s bearings travelling about alone, taking jeunes filles to the theatre who live alone in Paris, say anything, have no chaperons, and are prudes all the time.

“Confound it. I’ve made a fool of myself. But I must go and see Rupert.”

He lunched with that young man that day and told him word for word what had passed, even to the incident in the cab.

He need not have been so expansive nor have humbled himself so much.

Rupert had not for a moment misconstrued their presence at the theatre.

Also he was not in the least surprised about the incident in the cab.

Rupert was on the whole irritating. Nigel was glad to leave him.