Aleck, thus liberated from Mr. Lloyd-Jones and his mines, made his way across the room to Madame Reynier.  The cunning of old Adam, was in his eye, but otherwise he was the picture of deferential innocence.

Madame Reynier liked Aleck, with his inoffensive Americanisms and unfailing kindliness; and with her friends she was frankness itself.  With two men on Miss Reynier’s hands for entertainment, it seemed to Aleck unlikely that either one could make any alarming progress.  Besides, he was glad of a tete-a-tete with the chaperone.

Madame Reynier was a tall, straight woman, elderly, dressed entirely in black, with gaunt, aristocratic features and great directness of speech.  She had the fine kind of hauteur which forbids persons of this type ever to speak of money, of disease, of scandal, or of too intimate personalities; in Madame Reynier’s case it also restrained her from every sort of exaggerated speech.  She spoke English with some difficulty and preferred French.

Van Camp seated himself on a spindle-legged, gilt chair by Madame Reynier’s side, and begged to know how they were enduring the New York climate, which had formerly proved intolerable to Madame Reynier.  As he seated himself she stretched out saving hands.

“I can endure the climate, thank you; but I can’t endure to see your life endangered on that silly chair, my dear Mr. Van Camp.  There—­thank you.”  And when he was seated in a solid mahogany, he was rewarded with Madame Reynier’s confidential chat.  They had returned to their New York apartment in the midst of the summer season, she said, “for professional advice.”  She and her niece liked the city and never minded the heat.  Melanie, her aunt explained, had been enabled to see several old friends, and, for her own part, she liked home at any time of the year better than the most comfortable of hotels.

“This is quite like home,” she added, “even though we are really exiles.”  Aleck ventured to hope that the “professional advice” had not meant serious trouble of any sort.

“A slight indisposition only.”

“And are you much better now?” Aleck inquired solicitously.

“Oh, it wasn’t I; it was Melanie,” Madame smiled.  “I became my own physician many years ago, and now I never see a doctor except when we ask one to dine.  But youth has no such advantage.”  Madame fairly beamed with benevolence while explaining one of her pet idiosyncrasies.  Before Aleck could make any headway in gleaning information concerning her own and Melanie’s movements, as he was shamelessly trying to do, Lloyd-Jones had persuaded Miss Reynier to sing.

“Some of those quaint old things, please,” he was saying; and Aleck wondered if he never would hang himself with his own rope.  But Lloyd-Jones’ cheerful voice went on: