“Ah, par exemple!” the Baroness went on.  “The little monster!  The next time he becomes sentimental I will him tell that he ought to be ashamed of himself.”

Acton was silent a moment.  “You had better say nothing about it.”

“I had told him as much already, on general grounds,” said the Baroness.  “But in this country, you know, the relations of young people are so extraordinary that one is quite at sea.  They are not engaged when you would quite say they ought to be.  Take Charlotte Wentworth, for instance, and that young ecclesiastic.  If I were her father I should insist upon his marrying her; but it appears to be thought there is no urgency.  On the other hand, you suddenly learn that a boy of twenty and a little girl who is still with her governess—­your sister has no governess?  Well, then, who is never away from her mamma—­a young couple, in short, between whom you have noticed nothing beyond an exchange of the childish pleasantries characteristic of their age, are on the point of setting up as man and wife.”  The Baroness spoke with a certain exaggerated volubility which was in contrast with the languid grace that had characterized her manner before Clifford made his appearance.  It seemed to Acton that there was a spark of irritation in her eye—­a note of irony (as when she spoke of Lizzie being never away from her mother) in her voice.  If Madame Munster was irritated, Robert Acton was vaguely mystified; she began to move about the room again, and he looked at her without saying anything.  Presently she took out her watch, and, glancing at it, declared that it was three o’clock in the morning and that he must go.

“I have not been here an hour,” he said, “and they are still sitting up at the other house.  You can see the lights.  Your brother has not come in.”

“Oh, at the other house,” cried Eugenia, “they are terrible people!  I don’t know what they may do over there.  I am a quiet little humdrum woman; I have rigid rules and I keep them.  One of them is not to have visitors in the small hours—­especially clever men like you.  So good night!”

Decidedly, the Baroness was incisive; and though Acton bade her good night and departed, he was still a good deal mystified.

The next day Clifford Wentworth came to see Lizzie, and Acton, who was at home and saw him pass through the garden, took note of the circumstance.  He had a natural desire to make it tally with Madame M; auunster’s account of Clifford’s disaffection; but his ingenuity, finding itself unequal to the task, resolved at last to ask help of the young man’s candor.  He waited till he saw him going away, and then he went out and overtook him in the grounds.

“I wish very much you would answer me a question,” Acton said.  “What were you doing, last night, at Madame Munster’s?”

Clifford began to laugh and to blush, by no means like a young man with a romantic secret.  “What did she tell you?” he asked.