“This simple hand,” said Mr. Ingram, seizing it, “will soon bear a ring.  Laurencine is engaged to be married.”

“I’m not, father.”  She sat down again.

“Well, you are not.  But you will be, I presume, by post-time to-night.  A young man of the name of Lucas has written to Laurencine this morning in a certain sense, and he has also written to me.  Laurencine has seen my letter, and I’ve seen hers.  But my envelope contained only one letter.  Whether her envelope contained more than one, whether the epistle which I saw is written in the style usually practised by the present age, whether it was composed for the special purpose of being shown to me, I do not know, and discretion and nice gentlemanly feeling forbid me to inquire.  However——­”

At this point, Laurencine snatched her father’s napkin off his knees and put it on her own.

“However, my wife and I have met this Mr. Lucas, and as our opinion about him is not wholly unfavourable, the matter was satisfactorily and quickly arranged—­even before I had had my bath; Laurencine and I will spend the afternoon in writing suitable communications to Mr. Lucas.  I am ready to show her mine for a shilling, but I doubt if five pounds would procure me a sight of hers.  Yet she is only an amateur writer and I’m a professional.”

There was a little silence, and then George said awkwardly: 

“I congratulate old Lucas.”

“This news must have astonished you extremely,” observed Mr. Ingram.  “It must have come as a complete surprise.  In fact you are doubtless in the condition known to charwomen as capable of being knocked down with a feather.”

“Oh!  Quite!” George agreed.

Nevertheless, in spite of his light tone, he regretted the engagement.  He did not think Lucas was worthy of the splendid girl.  He felt sorry for her.  At that moment she faced him bravely, and smiled.  Her face had a tremendous deep crimson flush.  There was a woman somewhere in the girl!  Strange phenomenon!  And another strange phenomenon:  if Laurencine had been self-conscious, George also was self-conscious; and he avoided Lois’s eyes!  Why?  He wondered whether the circumstances in which he had come to Paris and entered the Ingram home were as simple and ordinary as they superficially appeared.

“Laurencine,” said her mother, “give your father back his serviette!”

“Mine’s fallen.”

“Never mind, my dear,” said Mr. Ingram very benevolently, and he bent down and retrieved Laurencine’s napkin, which he kept.  “And now,” he proceeded, “the serious operation being over and the patient out of danger, shall we talk about something else for a few moments?”

“I should think so indeed!” Laurencine exclaimed, suddenly gay.  “George, when shall you know about the competition?”

“Any minute, I might,” said he.

They all talked sympathetically to George on the new subject.