mire his painting a lot, more than yesterday."
"Yes, my love."
"How charming it all is!" he said to himself as he knocked at the studio door. "Delightful family conspiracies. Shall I be able to play this part for long? Suppose I announce my intentions to my venerable friend. Obviously, there can be no more hesitation. Come on!"
They talked of Ste. Clotilde. M. Hervart was loud in his praise both of the historical knowledge as well as the pictorial skill of the master of Robinvast, and at every word he uttered he felt a longing to make the conversation touch on the conjugal virtues of that honourable queen. Then the desire passed.
Dinner time came. Afterwards, as usual, they played a game of whist. M. Hervart retired to bed with pleasure and, wearied by his kisses and his thoughts, went to sleep full of the contentment that comes from a pleasant fatigue.
"I shall have to warn Rose," he said to himself as soon as he woke, rather late, next morning, "of her mother's schemes. They might make her fall into some trap."
He soon found an opportunity. In the morn-
