eer smile;
she kissed her as if she didn't know she was doing it. She laughed
as she greeted her, but her laugh was extravagant; it was a different
demonstration every way from any Francie had hitherto had to reckon
with. By the time our young lady had noted these things she was sitting
beside her on a sofa and Mme. de Brecourt had her hand, which she held
so tight that it almost hurt her. Susan's eyes were in their nature
salient, but on this occasion they seemed to have started out of her
head.

"We're upside down--terribly agitated. A thunderbolt has fallen on the
house."

"What's the matter--what's the matter?" Francie asked, pale and with
parted lips. She had a sudden wild idea that Gaston might have found out
in America that her father had no money, had lost it all; that it had
been stolen during their long absence. But would he cast her off for
that?

"You must understand the closeness of our union with you from our
sending for you this way--the first, the only person--in a crisis. Our
joys are your joys and our indignations are yours."

"What IS the matter, PLEASE?" the girl repeated. Their "indignations"
opened up a gulf; it flashed upon her, with a shock of mortification
for the belated idea, that something would have come out: a piece in
the paper, from Mr. Flack, about her portrait and even a little about
herself. But that was only more mystifying, for certainly Mr. Flack
could only have published something pleasant--something to be proud
of. Had he by some incredible perversity or treachery stated that the
picture was bad, or even that SHE was? She grew dizzy, remembering
how she had refused him, and how little he had liked it, that day at
Saint-Germain. But they had made that up over and over, especially when
they sat so long on a bench together (the time they drove) in the Bois
de Boulogne.

"Oh the most awful thing; a newspaper sent this morning from America to
my father--containing two horrible columns of vulgar lies and scandal
about our family, about all of us, about you, about your picture,
about poor Marguerite, calling her 'Margot,' about Maxime and Leonie de
Villepreux, saying he's her lover, about all our affairs, about Gaston,
about your marriage, about your sister and your dresses and your
dimples, about our darling father, whose history it professes to relate
in the most ignoble, the most revolting terms. Papa's in the most awful
state!" and Mme. de Brecourt panted to take breath. She h