Madame Münster stooped and plucked a daisy from the grass. “And not sign my renunciation?”

“Well, I don’t know—I don’t know,” said Acton.

“In one case I should have my revenge; in another case I should have my liberty.”

Acton gave a little laugh as he helped her into the carriage. “At any rate,” he said, “take good care of that paper.”

A couple of days afterward he asked her to come and see his house. The visit had already been proposed, but it had been put off in consequence of his mother’s illness. She was a constant invalid, and she had passed these recent years, very patiently, in a great flowered arm-chair at her bedroom window. Lately, for some days, she had been unable to see anyone; but now she was better, and she sent the Baroness a very civil message. Acton had wished their visitor to come to dinner; but Madame Münster preferred to begin with a simple call.

She had reflected that if she should go to dinner Mr. Wentworth and his daughters would also be asked, and it had seemed to her that the peculiar character of the occasion would be best preserved in a tête-à-tête with her host. Why the occasion should have a peculiar character she explained to no one. As far as anyone could see, it was simply very pleasant. Acton came for her and drove her to his door, an operation which was rapidly performed.

His house the Baroness mentally pronounced a very good one; more articulately, she declared that it was enchanting. It was large and square and painted brown; it stood in a well-kept shrubbery, and was approached, from the gate, by a short drive. It was, moreover, a much more modern dwelling than Mr. Wentworth’s, and was more redundantly upholstered and expensively ornamented. The Baroness perceived that her entertainer had analyzed material comfort to a sufficiently fine point. And then he possessed the most delightful chinoiseries—trophies of his sojourn in the Celestial Empire: pagodas of ebony and cabinets of ivory; sculptured monsters, grinning and leering on chimney-pieces, in front of beautifully figured hand-screens; porcelain dinner-sets, gleaming behind the glass doors of mahogany buffets; large screens, in corners, covered with tense silk and embroidered with mandarins and dragons. These things were scattered all over the house, and they gave Eugenia a pretext for a complete domiciliary visit. She liked it, she enjoyed it; she thought it a very nice place. It had a mixture of the homely and the liberal, and though it was almost a museum, the large, 

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