“But still,” said Peel-Swynnerton, “they must like it or they wouldn’t stay—­that is, unless things are very different here from what they are in England.”

The conversation seemed to have stimulated him to examine the woman question in all its bearings, with philosophic curiosity.

“Oh!  They like it,” Mr. Mardon assured him, as one who knew.  “Besides, Mrs. Scales treats ’em very well.  I know that.  She’s told me.  She’s very particular”—­he looked around to see if walls had ears—­“and, by Jove, you’ve got to be; but she treats ’em well.  You’d scarcely believe the wages they get, and pickings.  Now at the Hotel Moscow—­know the Hotel Moscow?”

Happily Peel-Swynnerton did.  He had been advised to avoid it because it catered exclusively for English visitors, but in the Pension Frensham he had accepted something even more exclusively British than the Hotel Moscow.  Mr. Mardon was quite relieved at his affirmative.

“The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now,” said he; “English.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  I floated it.  It was my idea.  A great success!  That’s how I know all about the Hotel Moscow.”  He looked at the walls again.  “I wanted to do the same here,” he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton had to show that he appreciated this confidence.  “But she never would agree.  I’ve tried her all ways.  No go!  It’s a thousand pities.”

“Paying thing, eh?”

“This place?  I should say it was!  And I ought to be able to judge, I reckon.  Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you’d meet in a day’s march.  She’s made a lot of money here, a lot of money.  And there’s no reason why a place like this shouldn’t be five times as big as it is.  Ten times.  The scope’s unlimited, my dear sir.  All that’s wanted is capital.  Naturally she has capital of her own, and she could get more.  But then, as she says, she doesn’t want the place any bigger.  She says it’s now just as big as she can handle.  That isn’t so.  She’s a woman who could handle anything—­a born manager—­but even if it was so, all she would have to do would be to retire—­only leave us the place and the name.  It’s the name that counts.  And she’s made the name of Frensham worth something, I can tell you!”

“Did she get the place from her husband?” asked Peel-Swynnerton.  Her own name of Scales intrigued him.

Mr. Mardon shook his head.  “Bought it on her own, after the husband’s time, for a song—­a song!  I know, because I knew the original Frenshams.”

“You must have been in Paris a long time,” said Peel-Swynnerton.

Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk about himself.  His was a wonderful history.  And Peel-Swynnerton, while scorning the man for his fatuity, was impressed.  And when that was finished—­

“Yes!” said Mr. Mardon after a pause,, reaffirming everything in general by a single monosyllable.

Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular.