“Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did you get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is there another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something.”

But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look, his attitude, are visible to me now.

“How is it? I must know all⁠— all ,” I cried.

The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I had fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.

“Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days,” said he. “Poor old Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging about three mortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinetmaker to charwoman. Lucy and Lucy’s cot, the sole thoughts in his head!”