One evening⁠—Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to Graham; she had left me in the library, reading⁠— M. de Bassompierre came in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to remain⁠—gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He had taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book he studied a certain entry for several minutes.

“Miss Snowe,” said he, laying it down, “do you know my little girl’s age?”

“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”

“It seems so. This old pocketbook tells me she was born on the 5th of May, in the year 18⁠—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve⁠—fourteen⁠—an indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”