ave formed about me, and
whether we were to stay at home, or go to London, or go abroad. Of the
last--the pleasantest arrangement, in some respects--I had nevertheless an
occult horror. A secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, we
should there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting my evil genius.

I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the reader
will, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily
understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have
found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me
profoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame,
under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an
event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence
in the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de la
Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could
not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my
father's mind.

'I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have
not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more
sense?'

This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and then
saying, 'We shall see,' he left me as abruptly as he appeared.

Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame?

A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the
terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached.

'You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to
Monica: in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will
come here for a short visit.'

I was very glad to hear this.

'_You_ are more interested than for my time _I_ can be, in vindicating his
character.'

'Whose character, sir?' I ventured to enquire during the pause that
followed.

One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and
silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible
to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken.

'Whose?--your uncle Silas's. In the course of nature he must survive me. He
will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear
that name, Maud?'

I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.

He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fanc