Probert would say something kind to her; but she had now determined to be strong. They were ever so many against one; Gaston was far away and she felt heroic. "If you mean Mr. Flack--I don't know what you mean,"

she said as composedly as possible to M. de Cliche. "Mr. Flack has gone to London."

At this M. de Brecourt gave a free laugh and his brother-in-law replied: "Ah it's easy to go to London."

"They like such things there; they do them more and more. It's as bad as America!" Mme. de Cliche declared.

"Why have you sent for me--what do you all want me to do? You might explain--I'm only an American girl!" said Francie, whose being only an American girl didn't prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as high as Mme. de Cliche's.

Mme. de Brecourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm.

"You're very nervous--you'd much better go home. I'll explain everything to them--I'll make them understand. The carriage is here--it had orders to wait."

"I'm not in the least nervous, but I've made you all so," Francie brought out with the highest spirit.

"I defend you, my dear young lady--I insist that you're only a wretched victim like ourselves," M. de Brecourt remarked, approaching her with a smile. "I see the hand of a woman in it, you know," he went on to the others; "for there are strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn't sink to--he can't, his very organisation prevents him--even if he be the dernier des goujats. But please don't doubt that I've maintained that woman not to be you."

"The way you talk! _I_ don't know how to write," Francie impatiently quavered.

"My poor child, when one knows you as I do--!" murmured Mme. de Brecourt with an arm round her.

"There's a lady who helps him--Mr. Flack has told me so," the girl continued. "She's a literary lady--here in Paris--she writes what he tells her. I think her name's Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine--or Dorine," Francie added.

"Miss Dosson, you're too rare!" Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. "Then you've been three to it," she went on; "that accounts for its perfection!"

Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr.

Probert, who stood looking down at the fire with his back to her. "Mr.

Probert, I'm very sorry for what I've done to distress you; I had no idea you'd all feel so badly. I didn't mean any harm. I thought you'd like it."

The old man turned a little, bending his eyes on her, but without taking her hand as she had hoped. Usually when they met he kissed her. He didn't look angry now, he only looked very ill. A strange, inarticulate sound, a chorus of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they'd like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to measure the droll effect of that speech. "Like it--LIKE IT?" said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if a little afraid of her.

"What do you mean? She admits--she admits!" Mme. de Cliche exulted to her sister. "Did you arrange it all that day in the Bois--to punish me for having tried to separate you?" she pursued to the poor child, who stood gazing up piteously at the old man.

"I don't know what he has published--I haven't seen it--I don't understand. I thought it was only to be a piece about me," she said to him.

"'About me'!" M. de Cliche repeated in English. "Elle est divine!" He turned away, raising his shoulders and hands and then letting them fall.

Mme. de Brecourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately--then she'd see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed their flushed little guest with his sick stare. "You gave information for that? You desired it?"

"Why _I_ didn't desire it--but Mr. Flack did."

"Why do you know such ruffians? Where was your father?" the old man groaned.

"I thought he'd just be nice about my picture and give pleasure to Mr.

Waterlow," Francie went on. "I thought he'd just speak about my being engaged and give a little account; so many people in America would be interested."

"So many people in America--that's just the dreadful thought, my dear,"

said Mme. de Brecourt kindly. "Foyons, put it in your m.u.f.f and tell us what you think of it." And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal.

But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. "I told Gaston I'd certainly do something you wouldn't like."

"Well, he'll believe it now!" cried Mme. de Cliche.

"My poor child, do you think he'll like it any better?" asked Mme. de Brecourt.

Francie turned upon her beautiful dilated eyes in which a world of new wonders and fears had suddenly got itself reflected. "He'll see it over there--he has seen it now."

"Oh my dear, you'll have news of him. Don't be afraid!" broke in high derision from Mme. de Cliche.

"Did HE send you the paper?" her young friend went on to Mr. Probert.

"It was not directed in his hand," M. de Brecourt p.r.o.nounced. "There was some stamp on the band--it came from the office."

"Mr. Flack--is that his hideous name?--must have seen to that," Mme. de Brecourt suggested.

"Or perhaps Florine," M. de Cliche interposed. "I should like to get hold of Florine!"

"I DID--I did tell him so!" Francie repeated with all her fevered candour, alluding to her statement of a moment before and speaking as if she thought the circ.u.mstance detracted from the offence.

"So did I--so did we all!" said Mme. de Cliche.

"And will he suffer--as you suffer?" Francie continued, appealing to Mr.

Probert.

"Suffer, suffer? He'll die!" cried the old man. "However, I won't answer for him; he'll tell you himself, when he returns."

"He'll die?" echoed Francie with the eyes of a child at the pantomime who has found the climax turning to demons or monsters or too much gunpowder.

"He'll never return--how can he show himself?" said Mme. de Cliche.

"That's not true--he'll come back to stand by me!" the girl flashed out.

"How couldn't you feel us to be the last--the very last?" asked Mr.

Probert with great gentleness. "How couldn't you feel my poor son to be the last--?"

"C'est un sens qui lui manque!" shrilled implacably Mme. de Cliche.

"Let her go, papa--do let her go home," Mme. de Brecourt pleaded.

"Surely. That's the only place for her to-day," the elder sister continued.

"Yes, my child--you oughtn't to be here. It's your father--he ought to understand," said Mr. Probert.

"For G.o.d's sake don't send for him--let it all stop!" And Mme. de Cliche made wild gestures.

Francie looked at her as she had never looked at any one in her life, and then said: "Good-bye, Mr. Probert--good-bye, Susan."

"Give her your arm--take her to the carriage," she heard Mme. de Brecourt growl to her husband. She got to the door she hardly knew how--she was only conscious that Susan held her once more long enough to kiss her. Poor Susan wanted to comfort her; that showed how bad--feeling as she did--she believed the whole business would yet be. It would be bad because Gaston, Gaston--! Francie didn't complete that thought, yet only Gaston was in her mind as she hurried to the carriage. M. de Brecourt hurried beside her; she wouldn't take his arm. But he opened the door for her and as she got in she heard him murmur in the strangest and most unexpected manner: "You're charming, mademoiselle--charming, charming!"