As I stood alone in the hall, without a sound of any sort, Rose appeared before me.

“Monsieur will dine after all,” she whispered calmly,

“My good girl, I am going to sea to-night.”

“What am I going to do with Madame?” she murmured to herself.  “She will insist on returning to Paris.”

“Oh, have you heard of it?”

“I never get more than two hours’ notice,” she said.  “But I know how it will be,” her voice lost its calmness.  “I can look after Madame up to a certain point but I cannot be altogether responsible.  There is a dangerous person who is everlastingly trying to see Madame alone.  I have managed to keep him off several times but there is a beastly old journalist who is encouraging him in his attempts, and I daren’t even speak to Madame about it.”

“What sort of person do you mean?”

“Why, a man,” she said scornfully.

I snatched up my coat and hat.

“Aren’t there dozens of them?”

“Oh!  But this one is dangerous.  Madame must have given him a hold on her in some way.  I ought not to talk like this about Madame and I wouldn’t to anybody but Monsieur.  I am always on the watch, but what is a poor girl to do? . . .  Isn’t Monsieur going back to Madame?”

“No, I am not going back.  Not this time.”  A mist seemed to fall before my eyes.  I could hardly see the girl standing by the closed door of the Pempeiian room with extended hand, as if turned to stone.  But my voice was firm enough.  “Not this time,” I repeated, and became aware of the great noise of the wind amongst the trees, with the lashing of a rain squall against the door.

“Perhaps some other time,” I added.

I heard her say twice to herself:  “Mon Dieu!  Mon, Dieu!” and then a dismayed:  “What can Monsieur expect me to do?” But I had to appear insensible to her distress and that not altogether because, in fact, I had no option but to go away.  I remember also a distinct wilfulness in my attitude and something half-contemptuous in my words as I laid my hand on the knob of the front door.

“You will tell Madame that I am gone.  It will please her.  Tell her that I am gone—­heroically.”

Rose had come up close to me.  She met my words by a despairing outward movement of her hands as though she were giving everything up.

“I see it clearly now that Madame has no friends,” she declared with such a force of restrained bitterness that it nearly made me pause.  But the very obscurity of actuating motives drove me on and I stepped out through the doorway muttering:  “Everything is as Madame wishes it.”

She shot at me a swift:  “You should resist,” of an extraordinary intensity, but I strode on down the path.  Then Rose’s schooled temper gave way at last and I heard her angry voice screaming after me furiously through the wind and rain:  “No!  Madame has no friends.  Not one!”