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told her that he was ‘defended’ by his bonne to go near the
edge of the lake, and that one must always obey to one’s
bonne. Ned Rosier’s English had improved; at least it ex-
hibited in a less degree the French variation. His father was
dead and his bonne dismissed, but the young man still con-
formed to the spirit of their teaching—he never went to the
edge of the lake. There was still something agreeable to the
nostrils about him and something not offensive to nobler
organs. He was a very gentle and gracious youth, with what
are called cultivated tastes—an acquaintance with old chi-
na, with good wine, with the bindings of books, with the
Almanach de Gotha, with the best shops, the best hotels,
the hours of railway-trains. He could order a dinner almost
as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as his experi-
ence accumulated he would be a worthy successor to that
gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated in
a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms
in Paris, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of
his female friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was
better draped than the high shoulders of many a duchess.
He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and
had once passed a couple of months in the United States.
He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered per-
fectly the walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in
going so near the edge. He seemed to recognize this same
tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoted a moment
ago, and set himself to answer our heroine’s question with
greater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. ‘What does it lead
to, Miss Archer? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can’t go

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