French, two being professors of the University, and all following some calling—no idlers. I can have (by paying extra) two rooms to myself. Of course my atelier will not be in the house, and I shall see but little of my fellow-lodgers. The less the better. As you may imagine, I am in no mood for society. I mean to work hard; it is the only way to drown recollection; but recollection with me will die hard. To-morrow I will write to my uncle. I believe this is due to him; but he must not know where I am. I trust implicitly to you to guard my secret. It is quite enough that you should know where I am. My maid believes that I am going to travel. Here, in an unfashionable quarter, I shall be as much lost as though I were in the backwoods of America. You will write to me, dear Mr. Twisden, I feel sure, and tell me all you hear from Farley. My address is 'Chez Madame Martineau, No. —, Rue ———, Paris.'
George sat buried in thought for some time after reading this letter. He then drew out his note-book, wrote down the address, and, after replacing the letter in the envelope, fastened it securely. If he felt any shame at what he had done, he tried to stifle the feeling. It was worth departing from the strict rules of honour, to obtain the information he had. The vague idea which had taken possession of his mind assumed a more tangible shape now that he knew exactly where Miss Shaw was, and would probably remain for some months. There was time before him to mature his scheme.
