And so, a heavy silver candlestick in either hand, I presently found myself preceding Rosa up the wide branching staircase of the house. We had left the owner with a reading-lamp at the head of his couch, and a copy of “Madame Bovary” to pass the time.

We stopped at the first landing to examine a picture.

“That mysterious complaint that he had, or thought he had, in London has left him, has it not?” she asked me suddenly, in a low, slightly apprehensive, confidential tone, moving her head in the direction of the salon below.

For some reason I hesitated.

“He says so,” I replied cautiously. “At any rate, he is much better.”

“Yes, I can see that. But he is still in a very nervous condition.”