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 CHAPTER 7
OTHER TOPICS: PRESENT/FUTURE VALUES,
PREDICTING COSTS, & ALLOWANCE FOR
UNCOLLECTIBLE ACCOUNTS
CHAPTER 7 QUESTIONS
1. Present value problems have 5 variables: interest rate, term, annuity payment, future value, and
present value.
2. The present value function in Excel is written PV(rate,nper,pmt,fv,type). PV stands for present value.
The arguments to that function are contained within the parentheses. The rate is the periodic interest
rate, nper is the number of periods, pmt is the periodic annuity payment, fv is the lump sum future
value, and type represents ordinary annuity or annuity due which basically indicates whether
payments are made at the beginning or ending of the period in question.
3. The PMT function in Excel is written PMT(rate,nper,pv,[fv],[type]). The arguments to that function are
contained within the parentheses. The rate is the periodic interest rate, nper is number of payments,
pv is the lump sum present value, fv is the lump sum future value, and type represents ordinary
annuity or annuity due which basically indicates whether payments are made at the beginning or
ending of the period in question.
4. The FV function takes very similar arguments to the PV function you just described. It is written
FV(rate,per,pmt,pv,type) where pv and type are optional.
5. The Min and Max functions built-in to Excel are used to help calculate the high and low costs in the
Hi-Lo method of predicting costs.
6. The Slope and Intercept functions of Excel are used in the Least Squares/Regression method. The
Slope function provides the slope of a line (in other words variable costs per unit) defined by two
arguments: known y’s and known x’s. In our case the known y’s are the actual costs and the known
x’s are actual days open. Both are located on our worksheet in an array of cells located at E5 to E16
and D5 to D16 respectively. The Intercept function takes the same two arguments and provides the
value of costs incurred when units are zero (in other words fixed costs).
7. On the Layout tab, in the Analysis group, click Trendline and then select Linear Trendline. (Office 365
users select Add Chart Element in the Charts Layout group and then Trendlines and Linear
Trendlines.)
8. In the percent of sales method, you multiply an estimated uncollectible accounts percentage times
sale to determine uncollectible accounts expense. That amount is then added to the existing balance
in the allowance for uncollectible accounts to determine the ending balance.
9. In the aging method you multiply an estimated uncollectible account percentage times an aging of
accounts receivable and then add them up to determine the ending allowance balance. To determine
uncollectible accounts expense you subtract the existing allowance balance from the newly
calculated ending balance.
10. The two methods are basically the same. The percent of sales method calculates the uncollectible
accounts expense which then dictates the ending allowance for uncollectible accounts balance. On
the other hand, the aging method calculates the ending allowance for uncollectible accounts balance
which then dictates the uncollectible accounts expense.

1|P a g e
CHAPTER 7 ASSIGNMENTS
1. Create a new What SUP Present Value Analysis

2|P a g e
2. Create a new What SUP Cost Analysis

3|P a g e
3. CREATE A NEW WHAT SUP ALLOWANCE FOR UNCOLLECTIBLE ACCOUNTS
ANALYSIS

4|P a g e
CHAPTER 7 CASES
Case Problem 1: Kelly’s Boutique
1.

5|P a g e
2.

6|P a g e
3.

7|P a g e
Case Problem 2: Wine Depot
1.

8|P a g e
2.

9|P a g e
3.

10 | P a g e
Case Problem 3: Snick’s Board Shop
1.

11 | P a g e
2.

12 | P a g e
3.

13 | P a g e
Case Problem 4: Rosey’s Roses

1.

14 | P a g e
2.

15 | P a g e
3.

16 | P a g e
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"Oh, I am in no hurry," he repeated, and, turning, walked with her. It
was so sweet and still, and he found it so satisfactory to have at last
got this impenetrable person to himself, with leisure to speak to her
and nobody looking on, that for a time Charles Wargrave said
nothing at all. It was pleasant to walk by her, to be conscious of the
white figure by his side, so perfectly quiet and tranquil, not betraying
by so much as a quiver of her dress anything of that alarm which he
had divined in her at the first sight of him. For a minute or two he
was quite satisfied with this; and it was to his surprise Mademoiselle
herself who burst into those usual banal sentences about the
strangeness of this garden in London, so secluded, so perfectly
quiet, as if there was not a house or a vulgar sound within miles,
while all the time the omnibuses were running, &c. He knew the
words exactly, and had indeed meant to say them himself if other
means of conversation failed.
"Yes," he said, "it is wonderful; but not so wonderful as some other
things—for instance, to find you here, waiting upon the amusements
of these two little——Mademoiselle, will you do me a favour?"
She looked up surprised—alarmed, too, this time, he felt sure—but
said with a smile, "If it is anything in my power."
"It is quite in your power. It is very simple. Do you know that I have
known you all this time without knowing you by anything else than
the absurd official (if I may call it so) generic name of
Mademoiselle?"
She coloured a little and laughed. "That is allright," she said, with
one of the few slips she made in English, running the last two words
into one. "It is an official title, and I am Mademoiselle. You would
refuse to let an Englishwoman be called Miss, but with a
Frenchwoman it is allright."
"I don't think it all right; I dislike it very much. Will you permit me
the pleasure of being able to call you by your name?"
Mademoiselle paused a little. She was evidently doubtful which was
the more dignified—debating between a reluctance to reply and a
reluctance to permit it to be seen that she had any objection to
reply. A denial, it appeared to her, might seem coquettish—a sort of
challenge to a playful struggle. So she raised her head and
answered, "I am Claire de Castel-Sombre," with the air of a queen.
"Ah," said Wargrave, "I thought as much. Is it out of pity for us as
nobodies, with a name never heard of till our grandfathers went into
business, that you have concealed, Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre,
un si beau nom?"
"I have not concealed it," she said with a smile. "Mrs Wargrave
knows my name; but why waste breath upon so many syllables
when Mademoiselle answers every purpose just as well?"
"That is a little scoff at us as industrials—not willing to waste
anything, even our breath."
She shook her head. "I will not be tempted into an argument."
"No?" said Wargrave, changing rapidly from one language into the
other. He knew French well, which is not too common with young
men about town, and he was proportionately pleased with his own
acquirement, and glad to note the little start of light and colour in
Mademoiselle's face. "You are too proud to argue or even to assert
the difference between an old noble name of Béarn and a common
English one which, on the foundation of a little money, sets itself up
as something, and condemns a woman like you, such a woman as
you, to give up every attribute of real life and waste all your gifts
and become an abstraction for the benefit of two——"
"Stop, stop!" she cried; "you are going a great deal too far. I am not
compelled to anything. I am doing only what it is my business to do,
in circumstances which are unusually comfortable and favourable. I
do not know what can have put such an idea of my situation into
your mind."
"It is very easy to explain that," he said. "My indignation has been
growing since ever I made your acquaintance. As if you did not
know very well that there is nobody in this house at all your equal,
either in family and breeding—which are, perhaps, accidental
advantages, for, of course, to have them you had only to give
yourself the trouble of being born—but also in mind, in heart——"
She put up her hand to stop him. "Mr Wargrave, you are under some
strange delusion. I am neither very clever nor very highly instructed,
nor capable of anything above what I have to do. As for breeding, I
was trained to be a governess as I am. Oblige me by giving up this
subject, which can lead to nothing but misunderstanding. I possess
nothing but that beau nom of which you form so great an idea. Of
all visionary things to stand upon, is not birth the most visionary?
Certainly it is so in my country: and ought to be still more in yours,
which is so practical——"
"Mine is not practical at all," said Wargrave; "that is one of the
mistakes you make. You are far less affected by romantic reasons
than we are. I have always thought so, and more than ever now."
She said nothing, but with a little movement of her hand seemed to
wave his argument away. "These things are beyond discussion," she
said.
"That may be; but you cannot imagine that one can look on and see
such a sacrifice, and not earnestly protest against it?" Wargrave
said.
Mademoiselle laughed—half pleased, half provoked. "You force me
into a discussion," she said. "I don't know what to say to convince
you that I am very well off, and desire no better. If I was not doing
this, what should I do?"
She turned and looked him in the face as she put this question, half
angry, half flattered, amused also at the young man's curious
earnestness and excitement. The look was unexpected, and caught
him full in the eyes. He made a hurried step backwards, and uttered
an unconscious exclamation.
"There is nothing," she said, quickly—"nothing else that I could do.
Do not disturb with such suggestions a woman working for her
bread. One might have had other dreams when one was young. But
life is very different from one's dreams. I am very well off; and there
is nothing else that I could do."
"Yes," he said, drawing a long breath, "there is something else. I
must say it—you could marry me."
She looked at him again with consternation, falling back a little,
drawing away, her eyes opening wide with amazement, and made
no answer for a moment. Then she said in a soothing tone, "Mr
Wargrave, don't you think you had better go home?"
Charlie was piqued beyond measure by this speech. "I believe she
thinks I am out of my mind," he said.
"It looked like it for a moment." She gave a little, low, uneasy laugh.
"You have given me a great fright. Pray go in at least, and lie down
upon the sofa till Mrs Wargrave comes in."
"Do you think me mad?" he said.
Her eyes dwelt upon his face with a serious doubt. "I think—the sun
has been too much for you. Your head is a little confused, Mr
Wargrave. Don't let us talk of it. I am quite sure that you did not
mean to be rude."
"Rude!" he cried; "Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre, you are very
cruel to me; you wound me deeply. I made you a very serious
proposition, and you treat me as if I were insane."
"Temporarily," she said. And at this moment there came an
interruption unexpected on his part. The two little girls had finished
their game, and they came with a rush, both together, upon Uncle
Charlie, as they called him, pushing between him and Mademoiselle,
and breaking up the situation in a moment. Edith and Dorothy seized
him and clung to him, hanging one on each arm. "O Uncle Charlie,
where have you been? What are you doing in the country? Why,
everybody is in London at this time of the year."
"Ask this lady what I was doing—she knows," he replied, not without
an effort to cast them off: but the children held fast.
"Ask Mademoiselle! How does Mademoiselle know? Was that what
you were telling her in French? I didn't know you could speak
French, Uncle Charles. O mamma! Here he is, and he's been here all
the time waiting for us till the set was over and talking French to
Mademoiselle."
"Well, I am sure I am very glad to see you, Charles. I hope you're
better for your change," said Mrs Wargrave, sailing up to the group
across the grass in all her finery. "And so you were talking French to
Mademoiselle? Well, of course, I understand it, and read it and all
that, but I'm not good at talking. Mademoiselle must have been
quite pleased to have a chat in her own language. Come in; there's
tea in the drawing-room, and it is cooler there than out of doors.
Edith and Dorothy, don't hang on to your uncle so."
"Oh, he doesn't mind!" cried the children, hanging on more closely
than ever. He was led in thus helpless to the cool drawing-room,
unable even to gain a look from Mademoiselle. She fell back in her
habitual way, leaving Mrs Wargrave to take her place. He was
himself forced forward in advance when she dropped behind. And
the last he saw of her was the sweep of her white dress across the
grass as she went another way. He turned his head to look after her,
but she did not vouchsafe him a glance. And the family loudly called
for his attention, and dragged him over the sill of the great window
which opened on to the lawn.
As for Mademoiselle, she went hastily up-stairs and reached the
schoolroom almost at a flying pace; nor did she pause then, but
went into her own room, which opened from it, shutting the door
behind her. She was in great agitation, she who was always so calm.
She tore her dress, stumbling and treading upon it as she made that
breathless run up-stairs. Her breath came quick, and she turned the
key in the door as if she were afraid of being pursued, which, of
course, was nonsense. But Mademoiselle was not in a state of mind
to weigh possibilities. The question was, what had happened to her?
Had she been insulted, or had some new thing too strange to be
comprehensible entered into her life?

CHAPTER V.
Claire de Castel-Sombre reached her room in a condition of mind in
which, though this was quite unusual, she forgot altogether that she
was Mademoiselle and became herself, a woman of strong feelings,
great personal pride, and a temperament impassioned and imperious
rather than subdued and calm. It was subdued under the burden of
all those necessities which made her natural impetuosity almost a
crime, so out of place was it, and out of keeping with every
circumstance around her; but such subjugation, being artificial, is
always at the mercy of an emotion or an impulse too strong for
manufactured bonds, and at this moment the natural flood had
swelled beyond all restraint. Her usual paleness was flushed with
angry colour. Her eyes shone, her whole figure thrilled with an
excitement which was beyond all restraint. A curious consequence,
one would suppose, of a proposal of marriage made by a young man
considered eligible in every way in circles much more exacting than
Mrs Leicester Wargrave's daughters or sister, much less her
governess. But Claire was roused by emotions which would not have
influenced these young ladies. It was not that there was anything in
the English language which prevented her full understanding of what
was said to her, or in the habits of Englishmen; but perhaps
something of French breeding, and something of the involuntary
depression and susceptibility which are fostered by such a position
as hers, turned her from the natural interpretation of such an
overture to a strained and false one. She thought that she had been
insulted by a light proposal which meant nothing, which was not
intended to mean anything, which was a sort of jibe and no more;
and every sentiment in her mind, as well as every drop of blood in
her veins, seemed to rise up again. "You might marry me;" it meant
contempt, or suggestive of an impossible escape from the subdued
state which, in the first place, it was insulting for any man to remark
upon. A woman who does her duty in the position which her
circumstances compel her to accept, whose pride lies in accepting
those circumstances as not alone the only possible, but as the most
natural and dignified, is not a woman to be insulted, she said to
herself, passionately stamping her foot upon the floor in her
paroxysm of wounded pride and feeling. In her usual condition
Mademoiselle would have been bitterly ashamed of that stamp upon
the floor. She was even now, in the fumes of her passion, and
blushed for herself, clenching her hands, which was a noiseless
operation, to stay in herself any possible repetition of that bêtise. All
good feeling, all honour, all justice even, forbade that a woman
should be jeered at for circumstances she could not help,
circumstances which her strength lay in making the best of, in taking
the sting out of by a dignified acceptance of them, in which there
should be neither question nor assumption of injury, nor the pose of
a person wronged. Above all things that pose of wrong was
abhorrent to Claire. It went against her pride to acknowledge that
she was in an inferior position, a dependant, and in the cold shade.
Her pride had been to ignore all that, to define her place as clearly
as possible, and make it fully comprehensible that it was the place
which she chose and that pleased her best. To remark upon it at all,
as Mr Charles Wargrave had done, even though in a way that was
intended to be flattering, was very bad taste, to say the least; but to
end these remarks by such a suggestion, by an offensive jest, was
an insult in every sense of the word. Her blood boiled in her veins.
She walked up and down the room to wear out as far as she could
the exasperation that possessed her, not stamping her foot any
more, which was a humiliating confession of weakness, but pacing
up and down because she was incapable of keeping quiet. A woman
who had always avoided any folly of so-called sensitiveness, who
had accepted everything with a smiling face, never murmured, never
taken offence, consented to be Mademoiselle, and to dignify the title
by the perfect philosophy of her self-adaptation to it—and after all
these years, after all these heroisms, after her proud self-denials and
self-subjugation, to be thus insulted! a sneer flung full in her face, a
dart of contempt to her heart! Mademoiselle felt as if that sneer had
struck her like a blow. Her face burned with the smart of it: she had
the sensation of the physical shock as well as of the rush of blood to
the brain which is its result.
And there was this special smart in it, that she had been beginning
to find in Charles Wargrave a friendly figure, a sympathetic look. He
had not been so often in the schoolroom, so often at the luncheon-
table, without exchanging now and then a word with herself which
had made her feel that he was more akin to her than his relations
were, more able to understand. The people under whose roof she
had lived for a year had not the faintest beginning of understanding,
nor were they likely to have it should she remain there for five years
more, which was very likely if she continued to "give satisfaction."
But he had looked at her now and then as if he recognised that she
was an individual, and not merely Mademoiselle. He had asked her
opinion on one or two subjects on which he and she were in accord
against the other stolid couple whose point of view was so different.
Mademoiselle had not been able to deny to herself—nay, had done
so with serious pleasure—that she liked to see M. le Cousin; that he
was one of the few people whose entrance was agreeable to her.
The fact that he was young made no impression upon this well-
trained stoic. She herself was old, she was on the level of men ten
years her senior, according to a well-understood chronology current
in society. There might not be, perhaps, much actual difference
between them in point of years, but, according to this system, she
was at least ten years in advance of her male contemporaries. It is
difficult, perhaps, to know the reason why, but it is perfectly
understood by everybody. She was "old enough to be his mother,"
and she had no feeling that it was otherwise. She regarded him as
so completely out of her sphere, in character and in age, as well as
in circumstances, that it had never occurred to the imagination of
Claire that he and she should meet anywhere save as they
sometimes did, on the ground of a mutual opinion, a common taste.
But this was enough to make her feel that it was an outrage greater
and more painful than usual, that scorn or insult should come from
him.
There was a knock at the door while Claire had as yet scarcely
regained any of her usual composure. "Please, Mademoiselle,
mother wants to know if you're coming down for tea?"
She paused a moment to master herself, and then opened the door.
"Not this afternoon, Edith. As you are going out with your mother I
am going to begin my mending, do you see?" There were some
garments laid out upon the bed that supported her plea. The little
girl cast a glance upon the high colour, so unusual in her governess's
cheeks, and ran off, with a vague sense of something which she did
not understand.
"She's not coming; she's going to mend her things; and, oh!
mamma, she's got such a red face, like she does when she's furious
with us!"
"To hear these little monkeys," said Mrs Wargrave, "you would think
Mademoiselle had the temper of a fiend. But she hasn't, Charlie;
don't take up a false impression. She is really one of the best-
tempered women I ever knew."
If any one had looked at Charles Wargrave at that moment it would
have been seen that he had "a red face" too; but he said nothing,
and presently went away.
That evening, sitting alone in the schoolroom, having so exercised
the power over herself which she had acquired by the practice of
many years as to banish the unusual colour from her face, to subdue
the over-beating of the heart and pulses, and to present to the
eager eyes of the children, when they returned from their drive, the
same calm countenance with which they were acquainted,
Mademoiselle received a letter which made her glad that she was
alone, with nobody to spy the changes of her face. It was very short,
and, though she had never seen his handwriting before, she knew
that it was from Charles Wargrave before she had taken it from the
attendant housemaid's tray. It was as follows:—

"I feel that I have offended you, though I scarcely know why. I
spoke hastily, without considering the form of words I used. If
you had been an Englishwoman you would perhaps have
thought less of that: but as you are you are the only woman in
the world for me. My hasty proposal was not hasty in meaning,
and it was made in all reverence and respect, though I fear you
did not think so. Forgive what has seemed to you careless in the
expression, but believe in the love that made it. Say I was rude,
and punish me as you please, but reply; and oh! if you can,
accept.—Yours ever and only,
"C. W."

Mademoiselle read this letter over three times, almost without

breathing, and then she laid it down on the table before her, and
grew, not red, but pale. Her lips dropped apart with a long-drawn
breath which seemed to come from the very depths of her being;
the blood seemed to ebb away from her heart; she grew white like
marble, and almost as chill, with a nervous shiver. She was terrified,
panic-stricken, dismayed. If all the anger had gone out of her it had
been replaced by something else more trying still. Astonishment in
the first place, dismay, a panic which impelled her to rise and flee.
But this it was impossible to do out of this well-regulated house,
where all went on with such unfailing routine, and there were no
breaches either of decorum or of hours. To have gone out after
dinner, unless for an understood engagement, would have
scandalised every inmate, as well as Mademoiselle herself, who also
had far too much good sense to allow for a moment, even to herself,
that it was possible to run away. No; she had, as is usual, something
much worse to do—to remain; to meet the man who, she thought,
had insulted her, who, instead of insulting her, had done her the
greatest honour in his power, who had attracted her sympathy and
liking, and now had made himself one of the most interesting of all
mankind in her eyes—to meet him without betraying by a sign that
anything had ever passed between them more than good-night or
good-morrow, to discourage and dismiss him summarily at once, yet
to be always ready to receive him when he deigned to converse with
her, as though never a word had been said between them which all
the world need not hear. Mademoiselle's first impulse was absolute
dismay; the embarrassment of the situation struck her above
everything else. Everything about it was embarrassing. She would
have to answer his letter, yet she must put her answer in the post
herself, keeping it away from all prying eyes: for why should she
write to Charles Wargrave, the cousin of the house? Supposing that
the housemaid saw it, that Edith or Dorothy saw it? Though she was
utterly blameless, how could that be proved,—how could she keep
their untutored minds from drawing their own conclusions? She had
nothing whatever to blush for, and yet she blushed instinctively,
involuntarily, at the idea of being found out in a correspondence with
Charles Wargrave. How much more, she said to herself with fright,
had she accepted his offer (wild thought which sent all her pulses
beating!). And then she must meet him absolutely unmoved; not
only without a look or word, but without the suspicion of a breath
that could have any meaning. The air must not move a fold of her
dress or lock on her forehead, lest it might be supposed that she
trembled. These were difficulties of which he would never think—
how should he?—of which nobody would think who was not in her
position. And though nothing else came of it, this must come of it.
Nothing else! What else? She paused, with a shock of abrupt
cessation in her thoughts, as one does who suddenly stops running.
What else? Nothing else except this—that she could never be at her
ease, but must always seem to be at her ease, in Charles Wargrave's
presence again.
In the meantime, the first thing to be done was to answer his letter:
that was a thing that could not be delayed, that must be
accomplished at once. And yet it took a long time even to begin it.
Mademoiselle arranged the paper upon her desk a dozen times
before she was satisfied. She did more than this. She shut up the
schoolroom writing-table, where all her usual writing was done, and
fetched from her bedroom a little old desk, a relic of girlish days,
once pretty in its inlaid work and velvet lining, now sadly shabby in
faded finery. She did not even say to herself what freak of fancy it
was which made her produce this old toy, this treasury of girlish
souvenirs, for the serious purpose she had in hand. It gave her a
great deal of trouble, for there was no ink in the minute ink-bottle,
no pens in the tray, nothing she wanted. She had to bring the paper
from the writing-table, and all the other accessories. Even after she
had surmounted these obstacles there was still a considerable delay.
She wrote a letter in French, and then one in English, and tore them
both into small pieces, and it was not till almost midnight, after all
the other members of Mr Leicester Wargrave's family were in bed,
that Mademoiselle succeeded in producing the following, which,
though it did not please her, she sent, as being the best she could
do:—

"I am very thankful, sir, that it is not as I at first supposed: and

indeed I ought to have known better, and never to have
believed that an English gentleman would insult a woman in my
position. I thank you that you have not done so; but, on the
contrary, complimented and indeed flattered me to a very high
degree.
"In return I send you a very direct answer, as you have a right.
There can be no question, sir, of my accepting a gift far too
great, which I had never anticipated, to which my thoughts
were never directed at all. It would be a poor compliment in
return for your goodness if I should take what you offer as
carelessly as if it were a cup of tea you were offering me. Oh,
no! no! I respect you too much to do so. A moment's thought
will also show you how very unsuitable in every way it would
be. You are young, you are rich, you have all the world can
 give. I am old—a middle-aged woman. I have nothing at all but
the beau nom you were so good as to recognise. It does not
mean even what it would mean in England—it means nothing;
in my own country, being poor, I would not even carry it. My
mother calls herself in Paris only Madame Castel. And, chief of
all, I am more old than you, middle-aged; it is therefore a thing
beyond the possibility of even taking into consideration at all.
"Adieu, monsieur, je vous remercie de tout mon cœur; vous ne
m'avez pas insultée, vous m'avez flattée; je réponds avec une
vive reconnaissance. Que le bon Dieu vous donne tous ce que
vous pouvez désirer hors la pauvre et obscure créature qui
s'appellera toujours,—Votre obligée,
"Claire de Castel-
Sombre."

She wrote this in great haste at last, and, without even trusting
herself to read it over, fastened it hastily into its envelope. She was
so frightened lest anybody should see it—lest it should fall under the
eyes of any youthful observer, whether pupil or attendant—that she
put it by her bedside unaddressed until the morning, when she
concealed it in her pocket until, in the course of the morning's walk,
she could put it into the nearest post-office. Perhaps it was her
sense of wishing to conceal which made the children's chatter so
significant to her. "Oh, Mademoiselle," said Edith, "why didn't you
send your letters out for the early post with mother's?" "And why
didn't you give it me to carry?" cried Dorothy; "you know I'm always
the postman." "Mother would say it was to somebody, and you didn't
want us to see the address," said the one little importunate. "And
you needn't have been so careful, Mademoiselle," said the other, "for
I would never have told who it was." "There is no question of
telling," said Mademoiselle, very gravely, to stop further discussion;
but as she turned away from the post-office another dreadful and
unforeseen accident happened. Charles Wargrave came up to the
group. She felt her heart leap from where it was, very low down in
her being, up, up to her throat. The children seized upon their
cousin as usual, while she walked along by their side with downcast
head. They told him all the story, how Mademoiselle had been
posting a letter and would not let any one see the address. "And I
always put the letters in the post," said Dorothy, aggrieved.
Mademoiselle kept her eyes down, and would not meet the look
which she divined.

CHAPTER VI.
It would not be easy to find a more difficult position than that in
which Mademoiselle now found herself. She had just put into the
post-box a letter to the man who came up at the moment, almost
before it had disappeared, and before she had returned his bow and
evaded the hand held out to her in greeting. The children had
informed him of this almost clandestine letter, which the governess
would intrust to nobody, which she had posted with her own hands.
He gave her a rapid look of inquiry, which she saw without making
any response to it. She could even see, somehow, without looking,
the flush that rose to his face on this intimation. He knew as well as
she knew that the letter was to himself, and, perhaps, perceived for
the first time, in a sudden flash of unconsciously communicated
feeling, how it was that she had posted it herself, and the reluctance
she must feel to allow the fact of her communications with him to be
known. The flush on his face was partly pain at this discovery, and
partly suspense on his own part, and the tantalising consciousness
that, though she was so near him, and a word—even a look—might
enlighten him, neither word nor look was to be had from her. She
had completely relapsed into Mademoiselle—the careful guardian of
the children, a member of a distinct species, an official personage,
not Claire de Castel-Sombre, nor any mere individual. She was at her
post like a sentinel on duty, to whom the concerns of his personal
life must all be thrown into the background. There was no place in
the world where she would not rather have been than walking along
the road towards Kensington Gardens by Charles Wargrave's side,
though with the potent interposition of Edith and Dorothy between.
But, though he felt this, he went on, with a curious fascination,
prolonging the strange thrill of sensation in himself, and glad to
prolong it in her, to keep up in her the excitement and whirl of
feeling which he knew must exist in the strange, concealed
circumstances which, for the moment at least, bound the two
together. To think that they should be walking thus, not speaking,
she, at least, never turning her head his way, who possibly might be
destined to spend all their lives together, to be one for the rest of
their days! Charles felt, with a sickening sensation of failure, that
there was little prospect of this; but yet that moment could never,
whatever happened, pass from the memories of either for all their
lives to come. He liked to prolong it, though he was aware it must
give her pain, though it made himself giddy and dazed in the
confusion and suspense. There was a cruel kind of pleasure in it—a
pleasure that stung, and smarted, and thrilled every nerve. They
walked thus, with the children chattering, along the side of
Kensington Gardens towards Hyde Park, all the freshness of morning
in the air, the sounds softened by summer and that well-being and
enjoyment of existence which warmth and sunshine bring. When at
last he left them, he would not let Mademoiselle off that touch of the
hands which she had the excuse of French habit for eluding, but he
the settled form of English use and wont to justify his insistence
upon. It was another caprice of the excitement in his mind to insist
upon shaking hands: but the hurried, reluctant touch taught him
nothing, except that which he did not desire to learn.
Mademoiselle reached home much exhausted by her walk, and
retired to her room, complaining of headache, which was very
unusual; but not before the whole history of the morning had been
reported to Mrs Wargrave—the mysterious letter put in the post, the
meeting with Uncle Charlie, and all the rest. Happily, no member of
the Wargrave family required any reason, save his devotion to
themselves, for Charles Wargrave's appearance. "He is so devoted to
the children; it is quite beautiful in a young man!" their mother said.
But she felt, at the same time, that Mademoiselle's behaviour
required looking into. A mysterious letter transferred from her pocket
to the post-office, though Dolly was always the postman, and loved
to be so employed—as if she did not want the address to be seen!
and then the mysterious headache, so unusual in Mademoiselle,
who, in delightful contrast to other governesses, never had
headaches, never was ill, but always ready for her duties. Mrs
Leicester Wargrave was divided between the fear of any change
which might deprive her of so admirable a governess, and that
interest which every woman feels in the possibility of a romance
going on under her eyes, and of which she has a chance of being
the confidante. She graciously consented that Mademoiselle should
not come down-stairs to luncheon, but paid her a visit afterwards in
her room, with every intention of finding out what was the matter.
She found Mademoiselle in her dressing-gown—that famous white
dressing-gown—retired into her own chamber, but with nothing the
matter, she protested; no need for the doctor—only a headache, the
most common thing in the world.
"But not common with you, Mademoiselle," Mrs Wargrave said,
drawing a chair near, and putting her hand on the governess's wrist
to feel if she were feverish,—for, of course, she knew, or thought
she knew, something of nursing, as became a woman of her time.
"No, it is not usual with me: I am glad, for it is not pleasant," said
Mademoiselle.
"I am very glad, too, I assure you; for a person in the house with a
continual headache is the most horrid thing! It is always such a
pleasure to find you ready for everything—always well."
Mademoiselle smiled, but said nothing. She was not without
sympathy for the employers of governesses who had perpetual
headaches: at the same time it is, perhaps, not exhilarating to be
complimented on your health as a matter of convenience to another
—though quite reasonable, as she was ready to allow.
"That is what makes me think," said Mrs Wargrave, "that you must
have something on your mind."
This assault was so entirely unexpected that Mademoiselle not only
flushed to her very hair, but started from her half-reclining attitude in
her chair.
"Ah," said Mrs Wargrave, "I thought as much! I don't call myself
clever, but it isn't easy to deceive me in that sort of a way,
Mademoiselle. I have noticed for a long time that you were not
looking like yourself. Something has happened. The children—they
are such quick observers, you know, and they tell me everything,
poor things!—said something about a letter. You know, I am sure,
that I don't want to pry into your affairs, but sometimes it does one
good to confide in a friend—and I have always wished my
governesses to consider me as a friend—especially you, who give so
little trouble. I thought it might, perhaps, be a comfort to you to
speak."
Mademoiselle, during this speech, had time to recover herself. She
said only, however, with the most polite and easy way of evasion, "I
know that you are always very kind."
"I am sure that I always mean to be," her patroness said, and she
sat with her eyes fixed upon the patient, expectant—delighted with
the idea of a sentimental confession, and yet rather alarmed lest this
might lead to an intimation that it would be necessary to look for a
new governess. Mrs Leicester Wargrave meant no harm to anybody,
and was, on the whole, an amiable woman; but, as a matter of fact,
the thing that would have truly delighted her, real pleasure without
any penalty, would have been the confession from Mademoiselle of
an unhappy love.
And now there suddenly occurred an idea, half mischievous, half
humorous, to Claire, who, in her own personality, had once been
espiègle, and was not now superior to a certain pleasure in exposing
the pretences of life. She scarcely understood how it was that,
having finally and very seriously rejected the curious proposal which
certainly, for a day or two, had done her the good service of
quickening the monotony of life, she should have the sudden
impulse of taking advice about it, and asking Mrs Wargrave, of all
persons in the world, what she ought to do. Caprices of this kind
seize the most serious in a moment without any previous intention,
and the thought that to get a little amusement out of Charles
Wargrave's proposal was permissible, seeing how much
embarrassment and annoyance she was sure to get out of it, came
to her mind with a flash of amused impulse: she said, "I did not
think I had betrayed myself; and, indeed, it is only for a day or two
that I have had anything on my mind."
"Then there is something?" cried Mrs Wargrave, delighted, clasping
her hands. "I was sure of it: I am a dreadful person, Mademoiselle;
there is no deceiving me."
"So it would appear," said Claire, with a gleam of humour which was
a little compensation, she felt, for her trouble. And she added,
casting down her eyes, "I have had a—very unexpected—proposal of
marriage."
"I knew it!" Mrs Wargrave said. She added, more warmly than she
felt, "And I hope it is a good one—and makes you happy. Tell me all
about it, my dear."
It was not that she had never called Mademoiselle "my dear" before,
for this is a word which glides very easily to some women's lips: but
once more it made Claire smile.
"It makes me neither happy nor unhappy," she said, "though it is a
very good one; for it is not a possible thing: except the trouble of
vexing some one, it can do nothing to me."
"You can't accept it?" Mrs Wargrave felt a momentary relief, and
then a stronger sentiment seized her. She could not bear to have
sport spoiled in the matrimonial way. "But why?" she said. "Why? Do
tell me all about it. If it is a good offer, and there is nothing against
the man, why shouldn't you accept it, Mademoiselle?"
"I have many reasons, Madame; but the first is, that I do not care
for him at all. You do not accept an offer which you have never
expected, never thought of as possible."
"Oh, if that is all!" said Mrs Wargrave. "Good heavens! nobody ever
would be married if that was to be the rule. Why, I never was more
surprised in my life than when Mr Wargrave proposed to me! That's
nothing—nothing! If it is a good match——"
"It is much too good a match. The gentleman is not only much,
much richer than I—that is nothing, for I am poor—but he is better
in the world in every way. His family would consider it a mésalliance:
and it would be so completely to my interest——"
"But, good heavens!" cried Mrs Wargrave again, "what does that
matter? Let his family complain—that's their affair. You surely would
never throw up a good match for that? Is there anything against the
man?"
"Nothing!" said Mademoiselle, with some earnestness.
"Then, what does it matter about his family? I suppose he's old
enough to judge for himself? And he could make nice settlements,
and all that?"
"Very likely—I do not know. He is rich, I am aware of that."
"You surprise me very much," cried Mrs Wargrave. "I have always
heard that the French cared nothing for sentiment—that it was
always reason and the dot, and all that, that was considered. Yet,
here you are, talking like a silly girl. Mademoiselle, if you will be
guided by me, you will not let any romantic nonsense stand in the
way of your advancement. Dear me! you don't disapprove of married
life, I suppose? You don't want to set up as superior to your
neighbours? And, only think what your position is—Mr Wargrave and
I are very much satisfied with you, and I had hoped you would stay
with us as long as Edie and Dolly require a governess; but you must
reflect that you won't be any younger when that time comes. We are
all growing older, and the time will come when ladies will think you
are not lively enough to take the charge of young children; they will
think you are not active enough to go out for their walks. Many
people have a prejudice against old governesses. I want to put it
quite clearly before you, Mademoiselle. Think what it is to go on
slaving when you are an old woman. And you will never be able to
earn enough to keep you comfortable if you should live to be past
work; and what will you do? Whereas, here is, apparently, an
excellent chance, a certain provision for you, and a far more
comfortable life than any governess could ever expect. Goodness!
what do you look for? You must accept it; you must not throw such
a chance away. I can't hear of it; and any one that had your real
interests at heart would say the same."
Mrs Wargrave spoke like a woman inspired. She reddened a little in
her earnestness, she used little gestures of natural eloquence. All
selfish thoughts of retaining so good a governess for Edith and
Dorothy had gone out of her mind. She could not endure that such a
piece of folly should be perpetrated under her eyes.
"All that I know very well," said Mademoiselle. "I have gone over it
too often not to know."
"And yet!" cried Mrs Wargrave, with a sort of exasperation. "Come,
come," she added with a laugh, "you are only playing with my
curiosity. Of course you can't possibly mean to do such a silly thing
as refuse. Poor man! when everything is in his favour and nothing
against him! I never heard of such a thing. I can't have it! Your
friends must interpose."
"But his friends will be most indignant—they will be in a state of fury
—they will say I am an adventuress, a schemer, a designing woman
—everything that can be said."
"Let them say!" cried Mrs Wargrave in her enthusiasm; "what have
you to do with that? Of course they'll say it. Men's friends always do:
but what is it to you what they say? that's their concern, not yours. I
suppose he is old enough to judge for himself."
"That is the last and greatest objection of all," said Mademoiselle.
"He is quite old enough to judge for himself: but he is younger than
I am. If all the rest could be put right, there is still that."
"Oh!" said Mrs Wargrave, making a pause. "Well, that is a pity," she
added, slowly. "I don't much fancy these marriages myself. But," she
said, pausing again, "it can't be denied that they turn out very well. I
have known three or four, and they've all turned out well. And,
besides, that's the man's own affair. If he is pleased, I don't see why
you should object. Is it much?" she asked, with a little hesitation.
"I am sure as much as—two or three years," said Mademoiselle,
firmly.
Mrs Wargrave was so indignant that she sprang from the chair and
all but stamped her foot. "Two or three years!" she cried. "Do you
mean to laugh in my face, Mademoiselle? I thought you were going
to say a dozen at least. I supposed it must be some boy of twenty.
Two or three years!"
"No, not twenty, nor thirty, but still younger than I am."
"This is quite absurd," said Mrs Wargrave, sharply; "a year or two
makes no difference, and you must let me say that it will be not only
foolish but wicked, criminal, to let such an opportunity slip. How can
you think of doing it, you who have a mother, and nothing but your
own work to look to? How do you know how long you may be able
to work? how can you tell what may come upon you if you slight a
distinct interposition of Providence like this? I can't imagine what
you are thinking of. Do I know the gentleman? Is he a Frenchman? I
hope, when you have thought it over, you will not be such a fool as
to send such a man away."
"No, he is not a Frenchman. He is English," said Mademoiselle,
eluding the other question. "And do you think I could bear it that his
family should call me all the names and turn against him?"
"His family!" repeated Mrs Wargrave with fine scorn. "What have his
family to do with it? It will be the most dreadful folly in the world to
give up your own happiness for anything his family can say."
She had no patience with Mademoiselle. She preached quite a clever
little sermon upon the necessity and duty of thinking of herself, and
of the ingratitude not only to Providence, which had afforded this
chance, and to the man who had given it, but even to the people
under whose roof she was, and who had her best interests at heart,
should she neglect such a means of securing her own comfort and
independence. Mrs Wargrave ended by feeling herself aggrieved.
Mademoiselle's culpable sentimentality, her rejection of the best of
advice, her obstinacy and wrong-headedness would, she felt sure,
recoil upon herself—but in the meantime Mrs Wargrave could not
conceal that she was wounded, deeply wounded, by seeing her
advice so slighted—"Though it is yourself who will be the chief
sufferer, Mademoiselle," she said, with almost vindictive vehemence.
And it was in this mood that she left the room, leaving, so to speak,
a prophecy of doom behind her. Mademoiselle, she said, would
repent but once, and that would be all her life.
Mademoiselle tried to laugh when Mrs Wargrave was gone, but the
effort was too much, and she astonished herself very much by
suddenly bursting into tears instead. What for, she could not tell. It
was, she supposed, a case of overstrained nerves and bodily
exhaustion, for she felt herself curiously worn out. But afterwards
she grew more calm, and it was impossible for her not to go over
Mrs Wargrave's arguments, and to find in them many things which
she could not gainsay. The smile that came over her face at the
thought of her own little mystification, the snare which had been laid
without intention, and into which her adviser had fallen so easily,
was very transient; for, indeed, the oracle which she had so lightly
evoked had spoken the words of truth and soberness. Claire asked
herself whether, on the whole, this matter-of-fact and worldly
woman was not right. Poor, solitary, and, if not old, yet within sight
of the possibility of growing into what was old age for a woman in
her position, had she any right to reject the chance of comfort and
advancement thus held out to her? Had she any right to do it? She
asked herself this question so much more at her ease that she had
already rejected it, and Charles Wargrave must already have
accepted her decision, so that she said to herself it was only a
hypothetical case she was considering. The question was, under
such circumstances, a mere speculation. What should a woman do?
Poverty before her on one side and wealth on the other—obscurity,
helplessness, the absence of all power to succour or aid, and
possibly want at the end—while with a word she could have all that
a woman could desire, every possibility of helpfulness, comfort for
her family, freedom for herself, the freedom from all cares and
personal bondage. And it was not as if there was anything wrong
involved. Mademoiselle knew herself not only to be a woman who
would do her duty, but one who would have no thought beyond it or
struggle against it. If she married a man she would be a good wife
to him, one in whom his soul might trust. Was it necessary to reject
the overture which would bring so much, because she had not that
one ethereal thing—the sentiment above duty, the uncertain errant
principle called Love, to justify the transaction? She asked herself
the question, with all the French part of her nature and breeding
urging her towards the common-sense view. Marriage meant a great
deal more than mere loving. It meant the discharge of many duties
which she could undertake and faithfully do. It meant a definite
office in life which she knew she could fulfil. It meant fellowship,
companionship, the care of joint interests, the best advice, support,
and backing up that one human being could give another. She felt,
though she would not have said it, that all this she could give, far
better, perhaps, than a girl could, who would be able to fancy herself
in love. Ah! but then——The other side of her character turned
round and cut her short in her thinking, but with an abruptness that
hurt her. She gave an almost sobbing sigh of regret and something
like pain.
Then another part of Mrs Wargrave's argument came to her mind.
Let his family say what they pleased, that was their concern. After all
there, too, was the teaching of common-sense. Mademoiselle had
felt as if it would be something like treachery to live in the
Wargraves' house and allow their relation to make such overtures to
her. Why? The Wargraves were kind enough, good enough, but not
more to her than she to them. They gave her the food and shelter
and wages they had engaged to give, and she gave to them a full
equivalent. They never considered her but as their children's
governess. On what rule should she consider them as something
more than her employers, as people to whom she owed a higher
observance beyond and above her duty? Gratitude?—there was no
reason for gratitude. There is a curious prejudice in favour of being
grateful to the people under whose roof you live, however light may
be the bond, however little the bargain may be to your advantage.
Mademoiselle knew that the day she ceased to be useful to the
Wargraves they would tell her so, and arrange that she should leave
them, not unkindly but certainly, on the common law which exists
between employers and employed. And why should she abandon
any hope of improving her condition through a visionary sentiment
of treachery to them? Ah! she said to herself again, but then——
What was it that stopped her thoughts in both these cases? In
neither was there anything wrong—no law of man, none even of
God would be broken. She would wrong no one. And yet——She
ended her long course of thinking with a sigh. An invisible barrier
stood before her which she regretted, which was unreal, which was,
perhaps, merely fantastic—a folly, not a thing to interfere with any
sensible career. But there it stood.
What a good thing that the case was merely hypothetical, everything
being in reality quite fixed and decided, to be reopened no more!

CHAPTER VII.
That night late there came a note by the last post—that post which
sometimes adds horrors to the night in London, with missives which
interfere hopelessly with the quiet of the hour. In it Charles
Wargrave thanked her that she did not accept his heart carelessly, as
if it were a cup of tea. He thanked her for her decided answer, but
he thought she would at least understand him when he said that, so
far as he was concerned, it could not stop there. Next time it would
not at least be a question which she had not anticipated, and he
would still hope that her prayer for his welfare might be
accomplished without the condition she put upon it—with which
there could be no welfare for him at all. It cannot be said that,
though her heart beat at the sight of it, this letter was a great
surprise to Claire. Notwithstanding her conviction that it was a
hypothetical case which she was putting to herself, she felt now that
she had not indeed really imagined or believed that Charles
Wargrave, a man who had got his own will all his life, was now to be
thwarted in so important a matter without resistance or protest. She
felt at once that this was what was to be expected. The letter,
however, piqued her a little—annoyed her a little. It would have
been reasonable that he should have met her arguments one way or
other. It would have been civil to have protested, and declared that
she was not old, though she pleased to call herself so. Though
Mademoiselle was herself so full of common-sense on this subject,
as on most others, she had a feeling that it was a failure of
politeness on the part of Charles Wargrave not to have said
something about it. When she discovered this sentiment in her own
spirit she was a little ashamed of it, but still it was there. And the
note in general said so little that it piqued and interested her. It was
skilfully done; but Mademoiselle did not see this—neither, perhaps,
did the writer. Perhaps Mademoiselle was momentarily vexed, too,
that there was no need to answer it. If there is one weakness which
is common to human nature, it is the pleasure which people take in
explaining themselves, especially on emotional subjects, so as to
leave their correspondents in no doubt as to their real meaning.
Claire had written very hurriedly the first time, with a genuine desire
to sweep such a troublesome episode out of her life. She felt now
that it would be pleasant to fill out and strengthen all these
arguments, and especially to bring out that point of age of which he
had taken no notice. He might, perhaps, from what she had herself
said, think her forty or more, seeing that he did not object to her
statement about her age; and she would have liked, while reiterating
that, to have made it quite clear what her age was—not, after all, so
much as he might think. But her good sense was sufficiently
effective still to make her feel that no answer was needed to his
letter. She put it away in the little faded desk, which, perhaps, was
doing it too much honour. There the matter would end,
notwithstanding what he said. He should find it impossible to get
any opportunity of speech; nothing would induce her to listen to him
in his cousin's house—nothing, though she had felt all the force of
Mrs Wargrave's arguments about the family. In short, it must be
allowed that, in respect to the question, in this, its second phase,
Claire de Castel-Sombre did not carry with her all the prudence and
experience of Mademoiselle, but was sometimes in her thoughts
more like a petulant girl than was at all consistent with her character
of a philosopher or a mature woman of the world.
And then there occurred what can only be called a pause in life.
Everything, of course, went on quite as usual; but in this particular
matter there was silence in heaven and earth. Life came to a pause,
like that pause in music which gives so much expectancy to what
precedes it, so much emphasis and effect to what follows. It is easy
to notice the advantage of a pause in music, but not so much in life,
where perhaps the occurrence of an interval, whether agreeable or
disagreeable, is, while it lasts, exceedingly tedious, involving many
stings of disappointment and blank moments of suspense. Claire
would not have allowed even to herself that she wanted the
sensation, the new condition of affairs to go on, which had suddenly
brought a shock of interest and novelty into her monotonous
existence. But, all the same, she suffered when it stopped. The
monotony to which she had so well schooled herself seemed more
monotonous than ever. A restless desire that something should
happen dawned within her; not so much that another incident in this
history should happen, as that something should happen—an
earthquake, a great fire, even a thunderstorm if nothing more. But
this desire was in vain, for nothing happened. There was a time of
very brilliant yet mild weather, not even too hot, threatening
nothing, and all went on in its usual routine. Mr Charles Wargrave
came occasionally to luncheon, as he had been in the habit of doing,
but Mademoiselle had always the best of reasons for withdrawing
immediately that the meal was over—lessons that required instant
attention, or letters that had to be sent off by the afternoon post.
Sometimes she caught a look from him which reproached her, or
questioned her, or merely assured her, as a look can do, that he saw
through her artifices, yet was not moved by them. She felt the strain
upon her nerves of these meetings, which were not meetings at all,
and in which no word was exchanged on any private subject; but
when he was absent, and did not appear for about a fortnight,
strangely enough Claire felt this still more. She said to herself, with a
smile, that he was at last convinced and saw the futility of the
pursuit; but though the smile ran into a laugh, there was no sense of
absolute pleasure in her mind. When an exciting story stops, even
when it is only a story in a book, and there are no more accidents
and adventures to anticipate, it leaves a dulness behind. And Claire
felt a dulness. The story of Charles Wargrave stopped. She did not
want it to go on—oh! far from that, she said quickly, with a hot
blush; but it left a dulness—as much as that a woman might allow.
The season was just about coming to an end, and Mrs Leicester
Wargrave's engagements were many in the rush of the final gaieties.
She had gone out one afternoon, taking the little girls with her, to a
garden-party, a thing which did not happen often, but when it did
come was a holiday to Mademoiselle. It was the beginning of July,
still and warm, and Claire went out with her work to the garden, to a
shady corner in which she could be quiet and undisturbed. She had
no fear of any interruption: a visitor for herself was the rarest
possible occurrence (for people naturally do not like the governess's
visitors about, who might be mistaken for visitors of the house), and
none of Mrs Wargrave's visitors were likely to penetrate to the
garden, the mistress of the house being absent. Claire had brought
out her mending, which was her chief work in her brief moments of
solitude. It was in a trim little covered basket, not to offend
anybody's eye; and, as a matter of fact, she did more thinking than
sewing. The happiness of thinking is when you think about nothing
in particular, thinking without an object: and the sense of unusual
leisure and quiet, and the soft influences of the air outdoors—which
she could enjoy without any anxiety as to Edith exposing herself to
the sun, or Dorothy running too fast—had filled Claire's mind with
this soft atmosphere of musing without definite thoughts. Stray
fancies went flitting through her mind like the little white clouds
upon the sky. She was Claire de Castel-Sombre through and
through, she was not Mademoiselle at all. She had forgotten to
remember about Charles Wargrave, and the story which had come
to a pause.
For once in a way to have got rid of all that, and then to lift your
eyes quickly at the sound of a step on the gravel, and to see him,
walking out quietly from under the shadow of the trees! Her heart
gave a leap as if it had somehow got loose, but she rose to meet
him with a countenance which was no longer that of Claire de
Castel-Sombre, but the well-trained face of Mademoiselle.
"I am sorry," she said, "Mrs Wargrave and the children are gone out.
There is a garden-party at the Merewethers'."
"I know," he said, "and hoped to find you alone."
"They were kind enough to ask me too," said Mademoiselle.
"I am very glad you did not go; I have been watching for this
opportunity so long! I suppose you don't think what it is to see you
across the table, and never have a chance of a word?"
"Monsieur Wargrave," said Mademoiselle, "might avoid that by
coming—to dinner, for example, when I am not there."
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