immediately offered for his degustation. "I don't, my dear,
understand. Why should you thank _me_--what had I to do with it?"

Her gesture was delightful. "But for monsieur it would not exist; for
butter, eggs, and flour. Monsieur Prosper, when he gave them, said it
was of the kindness of '_Monsieur Balstro_.'"

(Oh, Prosper! "I have corrupted _him_," his master thought. "He is as
bad as I am!")

"Well, I'm very glad indeed," and he said it heartily. "But what did
you especially want to make it for--with the one candle? That means
one year old. Who's birthday may it then be?"

"It is the birthday of maman." She shut the book, and as she did so
raised her great black eyes, which dirt and neglect could not spoil.
There was in her appearance so little suggestion of maternal care that
Bulstrode nearly incredulously asked, "Your mother? And what, then,
does your mother do?"

"She's a fish," informed the child tranquilly. And Bulstrode, although
startled, could believe it. It too perfectly accounted for the
cold-blooded indifference to this offspring. Not even a mermaid could
have been guilty of so little care for her child. Still, he repeated:

"A fish?"

"Oui, a devil-fish in the aquarium at Bostock's. Oh, que c'est beau!"
she clasped her little hands. "Maman wears a costume of red--quite a
small, thin dress," she described eagerly. "And it is all spangles,
like fire when she dives into the water. I have been; the waiter at
the cafe downstairs took me. I screamed. I thought maman was drowned.
But no--she comes up always!" The child threw her head back and lifted
her eyes in ecstasy. "C'est magnifique!"

"What is your mother's name?"

"Mademoiselle Lascaze."

"And yours?"

"Simone."

"What do you do all day, Simone?"

"I wash and cook and sew and play--I have much to do--oh, much." She
assumed an important air. "The bad air of the room makes maman ill, so
she's out--'to breathe,' she says--and she locks me safely in. I play
Bostock and dive like maman. And sometimes"--she lowered her voice,
and looking back to see if they were alone--confided, "I cry."

"Ah!" sympathized Bulstrode.

"But, yes," she insisted, "when maman forgets to come home, and the
night is so black; then the seamstress next door knocks on the wall,
and I knock back for company."

"I see," he understood gently, "for company."

He rang for Prosper. "You will conduct mademoiselle home, Prosper, and
give her