In the midst of her desolation an old persistent dream revisited her:  the dream of a small country cottage in France, with a dog, a faithful servant, respectability, good name, works of charity, her own praying-stool in the village church.  She moved to the wardrobe and unlocked one of the drawers beneath the wide doors.  And rummaging under the linen and under the photographs under the linen she drew forth a package and spread its contents on the table in the drawing-room.  Her securities, her bonds of the City of Paris, ever increasing!  Gilbert had tried to induce her to accept more attractive investments.  But she would not.  Never!  These were her consols, part of her religion.  Bonds of the City of Paris had fallen in value, but not in her dogmatic esteem.  The passionate little miser that was in her surveyed them with pleasure, even with assurance; but they were still far too few to stand for the realisation of her dream.  And she might have to sell some of them soon in order to live.  She replaced them carefully in the drawer with dejection unabated.

When she glanced at the table again she saw an envelope.  Inexplicably she had not noticed it before.  She seized it in hope—­and recognised in the address the curious hand of her landlord.  It contained a week’s notice to quit.  The tenancy of the flat was weekly.  This was the last blow.  All the invisible powers of London were conspiring together to shatter the profession.  What in the name of the Holy Virgin had come over the astounding, incomprehensible city?  Then there was a ring at the bell.  Marthe?  No, Marthe would never ring; she had a key and she would creep in.  A lover?  A rich, spendthrift, kind lover?  Hope flickered anew in her desolated heart.

It was the other pretty lady—­a newcomer—­who lived in the house:  a rather stylish woman of about thirty-five, unusually fair, with regular features and a very dignified carriage, indeed not unimposing.  They had met once, at the foot of the stairs.  Christine was not sure of her name.  She proclaimed herself to be Russian, but Christine doubted the assertion.  Her French had no trace of a foreign accent; and in view of the achieve-merits of the Russian Army ladies were finding it advantageous to be of Russian blood.  Still she had a fine cosmopolitan air to which Christine could not pretend.  They engaged each other in glances.

“I hope I do not disturb you, madame.”

“Not at all, madame.  I am obliged to open the door myself because my servant is out.”

“I thought I heard you come in, and so—­”

“No,” interrupted Christine, determined not to admit the defeat of having returned from the Promenade alone.  “I have not been out.  Probably it was my servant you heard.”

“Ah!...  Without doubt.”

“Will you give yourself the trouble to enter, madame?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian, in the sitting-room.  “You will excuse me, madame, but what a beautiful photograph!”