John seemed unconsciously to sanction the preference by looking down and saying in his kind voice, “Ay, keep close to my side, Lucy; these crowding burghers are no respecters of persons.”

I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence, mesmeric or otherwise⁠—an influence unwelcome, displeasing, but effective⁠—I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone. No, there he stood on the same spot, looking still, but with a changed eye; he had penetrated my thought, and read my wish to shun him. The mocking but not ill-humoured gaze was turned to a swarthy frown, and when I bowed, with a view to conciliation, I got only the stiffest and sternest of nods in return.

“Whom have you made angry, Lucy?” whispered Dr. Bretton, smiling. “Who is that savage-looking friend of yours?”

“One of the professors at Madame Beck’s: a very cross little man.”