The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield

he will easily find a suitable one in England. In a large community many nationalities are, naturally, represented, and Zella will have the advantage of learning Italian, or German, from teachers of those nationalities.'

      "And who will her school companions be, pray?" demanded Mrs. Lloyd-Evans. "One would wish her to make some nice friends who would be useful to her later on, girls whose mothers will be giving dances in London, when Zella comes out."

      "As to London," negligently replied the Baronne, "no doubt Louis will pick up many old threads, should he wish to do so, when Zella makes her debut. But at the convent,' I need not point out to you, she will have the inestimable advantage of finding herself among girls of many nationalities besides English and Irish."

      'One does not know who they may be," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans gloomily. "I have always said, give me an old English name that one has heard of, and I ask no more."

      "The noble families of our old Catholic countries frequently send their daughters to England for a convent education. Many of my friends have done so—the de Clamieres, the poor Marchesa di San Andrea, the de la Roche Glandy. But I need not continue. In a certain world everyone knows everyone, at least, by name—is it not so?" amiably inquired the Baronne, receiving, however, no response from her visitor, who had never before heard one of the names enumerated.

      A most unwonted sense of being baffled had assailed the unfortunate Mrs. Lloyd-Evans. "Had Louis consulted me, I should have told him that I could not approve of the idea of a convent," she repeated feebly.

      "Ah," said the Baronne, "I rejoice that you have been spared. It is so distressing, so ungracious a task, to express disapproval of the scheme of another. To do so unasked is, of course, unthinkable, but how frequently do the tactless force one into the admission of feelings that delicacy and good-breeding would bid one conceal!"

      Delicacy and good-breeding were perhaps responsible for the silent speed with which Mrs. Lloyd-Evans began to put on her gloves again.

      "I must say good-bye," she said agitatedly, "and I feel sure you will understand that all I have said arises only from my affection and anxiety for my dear, dear sister's only child."

      "Perfectly, perfectly," warmly replied the Baronne, also rising, and ringing the bell.

      "Your anxiety is well to be understood, and I am more than happy to have relieved it. Hippolyte, une voiture de place pour madame."

      Thus it was that ten minutes later the astonished Henry beheld his wife emerge from that vehicle of destruction, a Paris fiacre, apparently too much distraught to have any very clear idea as to how she had ever found herself inside it.