These words I have resolved to say to my uncle.

I go back to the hotel. I enter his private office. I reveal no secret when I say that he is not cordial.

“Ten thousand devils!” he has cried. “What do you here?”

I ’asten to tell him all, and plead with him to be decent old buck. He does not believe.

“Who is he?” he asks. “This English landowner?” How did I meet him? And where?

I tell him. He is amazed.

“You ’ad the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel?” he has cried.

I am crafty. I am diplomat.

“Where else, dear uncle?” I say. “In all Paris there is no such ’ome from ’ome. The cuisine—marvellous! The beds—of rose-leaves! The attendance—superb! If only for one night, I have said to myself, I must stay in this of all hotels.”

I ’ave—what do you say?—touched the spot.

“In what you say,” he has said, more calmly, “there is certainly something. It is a good hotel, this of mine!”

The only hotel, I have assured him. The Meurice? Tchut! I snap my fingers. The Ritz? Bah! Once again I snap my fingers. “In all Paris there is no hotel like this.”

He ’as simmered down. His shirt is tucked in. “Tell me again this plan of yours, Jean.”

When I leave ’im we have come to an understanding. It is agreed between us that I am to ’ave one last chance. He will not spoil this promising ship for the ’a’porth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. But he has said, as we part, if I fail, his ’ands shall be washed of me. He cannot now forget that I am his dear brother’s child; but if I fail to accomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will be able to.

It is well. A week later I follow the ’Endersons to London.

For the next few days, monsieur, I am in Paradise. My ’ost has very nice ’ouse in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular. There is much society. And I—I have the succés fou. I am young, ’andsome, debonair. I cannot speak the English very well—not so well as I now speak ’im—but I manage. I get along. I am intelligent, amiable. Everyone loves me.

No, not everyone. Captain Bassett, he does not love me. And why? Because he loves the charming Miss Marion, and observes that already I am succeeding with her like a ’ouse on fire. He is ami de famille. He is captain in your Garde Ecossais, and my ’ost told me ’e has distinguished himself as soldier pretty much. It may be so. As soldier, per’aps. But at conversation he is not so good. He is quite nice fellow, you understand—’andsome, yes; distinguished, yes. But he does not sparkle. He has not my verve, my élan. I—how do you say?—I make the rings round him.

But, tchut! at that moment I would have made the rings round the ’ole British Army. Yes, and also the Corps Diplomatique. For I am inspired. Love ’as inspired me. I am conqueror.

But I will not weary you, monsieur, with the details of my wooing. You are sympathetic, but I must not weary you. Let us say that I ’ave in four days or five made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to the tragic end.