few moments even the authorities will
be here to take charge of the woman's effects and Simone will become
the property of the State. She has no relatives, as Monsieur will
understand. Thinking, therefore, that monsieur, _who is so good_,
might for some reason care to take an interest in the child's
future----"

Branchard coughed and paused. Having given Mr. Bulstrode ample time to
speak, to show some signs of life and of his usual quick benevolence,
and being greeted with nothing other than quiet, meditative silence,
the merchant shrugged and comprehensively relinquished suppositions and
hopes in one large gesture.

"In which case" (evidently that of taking for granted that Bulstrode
was less good than they had supposed), "in that case we shall put in a
plea ourselves for Simone and adopt her."

Madame's voice, now in full and customary volume, expressed frankly
_her_ goodness. "We have five children and our means are modest,
but"--and she put it sublimely--"_one is not a mother for nothing_."

Her tirade, however, was quite lost on Bulstrode, who was occupied with
his own projects of benevolence. Turning to this contingent of the
_hotel meuble_ a back scarcely more imperturbable than his face had
been, he went out of the room to the terrace, where Simone sat just as
he had left her. She was, on her low chair, so tiny that in order more
nearly than ever before to approach her little point of view, to come
into her little sphere, Bulstrode knelt down on one knee.

"Don't look so frightened, my child. Nothing will harm you--I assure
you of that; don't you"--he called her loyally to answer--"don't you
believe me, Simone?"

The little thing drew in a struggling breath and whispered: "Oui,
m'sieu."

"Good!" He was smiling at her and had taken her ice-cold, dirty,
little hands. "You are fond of me, Simone--you like a little M'sieu
Balstro'?"

"Oh," she caught at her frightened voice and more clearly whispered,
"oh, oui, m'sieu!"

"Bien encore!"

He wanted tactfully to break the ice which shock and terror had formed
around the poor little heart, and yet not to prolong the moment.

"_Voyons_," he said to her lightly, as if he were only to bid her come
and play in his garden, and not ask her to decide her destiny.
"_Voyons_, how would you like to come and live with me? to have toys
and pretty clothes and good things to eat--to be"--the bachelor put it
bravely--"to be _my_ little girl. How, Simone, woul