"Nothing--only I do not understand." It would appear that Isabella's lack of comprehension took a more active form than that displayed in the conversation reported, _tant bien que mal_, from subsequent hearsay.

Indeed, it has been my experience that when a woman fails to comprehend a mystery--whether it be her own affair or not--it is rarely for the want of trying to sift it.
That Isabella Gayerson made further attempt to discover my motives in watching over Madame de Clericy and Lucille was rendered apparent to me not very long afterwards.

It was, in fact, in the month of November, while Paris was still besieged, and rumours of Commune and Anarchy reached us in tranquil England, that I had the opportunity of returning in small part the hospitality of Alphonse Giraud.
Wounded and taken prisoner during the disastrous retreat upon the capital, my friend obtained after a time his release under promise to take no further part in the war, a promise the more freely given that his hurt was of such a nature that he could never hope to swing a sword in his right hand again.
This was forcibly brought home to me when I met Giraud at Charing Cross station, when he extended to me his left hand.
"The other I cannot offer you," he cried, "for a sausage-eating Uhlan, who smelt shockingly of smoke, cut the tendons of it." He lifted the hand hidden in a black silk handkerchief worn as a sling, and swaggered along the platform with a military air and bearing far above his inches.
We dined together, and he passed that night in my rooms in London, where I had a spare bed.

He evinced by his every word and action that spontaneous affection which he had bestowed upon me.

We had, moreover, a merry evening, and only once, so far as I remember, did he look at me with a grave face.
"Dick," he then said, "can you lend me a thousand francs?
I have not one sou." "Nor I," was my reply.