“Passport, monsieur!”

“Que voulez vous que je fasse,” replied the old Frenchman, gruffly.

“Je suis j’ai—­that is, donnez moi passport.”

“Where do you go?” replied the Consul.

“Calai.”

“Comment diable, speak Inglis, an I understan’ you as besser.  Your name?”

“Lorraine Snaggs, gentilhomme.”

“What age have you?—­how old?”

“Twenty-two.”

“C’est ca,” said the old consul, flinging the passport across the table, with the air of a man who thoroughly comprehended the applicant’s pretension to the designation of gentilhomme Anglais.

“Will you be seated ma’mselle?” said the polite old Frenchman, who had hitherto been more like a bear than a human being—­“Ou allez vous donc; where to, ma chere?”

“To Paris, sir.”

“By Calais?”

“No, sir; by Boulogne”—­

“C’est bon; quel age avez vous.  What old, ma belle?”

“Nineteen, sir, in June.”

“And are you alone, quite, eh?”

“No, sir, my little girl.”

“Ah! your leetel girl—­c’est fort bien—­je m’appercois; and your name?”

“Fanny Linwood, sir.”

“C’est fini, ma chere, Mademoiselle Fanni Linwood,” said the old man, as he wrote down the name.

“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon, but you have put me down Mademoiselle, and —­and—­you see, sir, I have my little girl.”

“A c’est egal, mam’selle, they don’t mind these things in France—­au plaisir de vous voir.  Adieu.”

“They don’t mind these things in France,” said I to myself, repeating the old consul’s phrase, which I could not help feeling as a whole chapter on his nation.

My business was soon settled, for I spoke nothing but English—­very little knowledge of the world teaching me that when we have any favour, however slight, to ask, it is always good policy to make the amende by gratifying the amour propre of the granter—­if, happily, there be an opportunity for so doing.

When I returned to Mivart’s, I found a written answer to my letter of the morning, stating that his lordship of the Horse Guards was leaving town that afternoon, but would not delay my departure for the continent, to visit which a four month’s leave was granted me, with a recommendation to study at Weimar.

The next day brought us to Dover, in time to stroll about the cliffs during the evening, when I again talked sentiment with the daughter till very late.  The Madame herself was too tired to come out, so that we had our walk quite alone.  It is strange enough how quickly this travelling together has shaken us into intimacy.  Isabella says she feels as if I were her brother; and I begin to think myself she is not exactly like a sister.  She has a marvellously pretty foot and ancle.

The climbing of cliffs is a very dangerous pastime.  How true the French adage—­“C’est plus facile de glisser sur la gazon que sur la glace.”  But still nothing can come of it; for if Lady Jane be not false, I must consider myself an engaged man.