a thing, Monsieur
Horace?"

"Well, your general appearance," he answered. "It suggests
balls, fetes, concerts, operas----"

Madelon shook her head, laughing.

"That is a very deceptive appearance," she said. "Aunt Barbara
and I never go anywhere but to classes, and masters, and to a
small tea-party occasionally, and to see pictures sometimes."

"But how is that?--does Aunt Barbara not approve of society?"

"Oh, yes, but she thinks I am not old enough," answered
Madelon, demurely. "So I am not out yet, and I have not been
to a ball since I was ten years old."

"And do you like that sort of thing? It does not sound at all
lively," said Graham.

"It is rather dull," replied Madelon, "simply; but then I think
everything in England is--is _triste_--I beg your pardon," she
added, quickly, colouring, "I did not mean to complain."

"No, no, I understand. You need not mind what you say to me,
Madelon; I want to know what you are doing, what sort of life
you are leading, how you get on. So you find England _triste?_
In what way?"

"I don't know--not in one way or another--it is everything.
There is no life, no movement, no colour, or sunshine--yes, the
sun shines, of course, but it is different. Ah, Monsieur
Horace, you who have just come back to it, do you not
understand what I mean?"

"I think I do in a way; but then, you know, coming to England
is coming home to me, Madelon, and that makes a great
difference."

"Yes, that makes a great difference; England can never be home
to me, I think. I will tell you, Monsieur Horace--yesterday at
that Exhibition I went to with Aunt Barbara, you know, I saw a
picture; it was an Italian scene, quite small, only a white
wall with a vine growing over the top, and a bit of blue sky,
and a beggar-boy asleep in the shade. One has seen the same
thing a hundred times before, but this one looked so bright,
so hot, so sunny, it gave me such a longing--such a longing----"

She started up, and walked once or twice up and down the room.
In a moment she came back, and went on hurriedly:--

"You ask me if I have forgotten the past, Monsieur Horace. I
think of it always--always. I cannot like England, and English
life. Aunt Barbara will not let me speak of it, and I try to
forget it when she is by, but I cannot. Aunt Barbara is very
kind--kinder than you can imagine--it is not that; but I am
weary of it all so. When we walk in the Park, or sit here in
the evening, reading, I am thinki