y trouble you so far as to ask you to let him know it!"

M. de Cliche fingered the points of his moustache; he diffused some
powerful scent; his eyes were dreadful to Francie. She wished Mr.
Probert would say something kind to her; but she had now determined to
be strong. They were ever so many against one; Gaston was far away and
she felt heroic. "If you mean Mr. Flack--I don't know what you mean,"
she said as composedly as possible to M. de Cliche. "Mr. Flack has gone
to London."

At this M. de Brecourt gave a free laugh and his brother-in-law replied:
"Ah it's easy to go to London."

"They like such things there; they do them more and more. It's as bad as
America!" Mme. de Cliche declared.

"Why have you sent for me--what do you all want me to do? You might
explain--I'm only an American girl!" said Francie, whose being only an
American girl didn't prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as
high as Mme. de Cliche's.

Mme. de Brecourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm.
"You're very nervous--you'd much better go home. I'll explain everything
to them--I'll make them understand. The carriage is here--it had orders
to wait."

"I'm not in the least nervous, but I've made you all so," Francie
brought out with the highest spirit.

"I defend you, my dear young lady--I insist that you're only a wretched
victim like ourselves," M. de Brecourt remarked, approaching her with
a smile. "I see the hand of a woman in it, you know," he went on to the
others; "for there are strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn't sink
to--he can't, his very organisation prevents him--even if he be the
dernier des goujats. But please don't doubt that I've maintained that
woman not to be you."

"The way you talk! _I_ don't know how to write," Francie impatiently
quavered.

"My poor child, when one knows you as I do--!" murmured Mme. de Brecourt
with an arm round her.

"There's a lady who helps him--Mr. Flack has told me so," the girl
continued. "She's a literary lady--here in Paris--she writes what
he tells her. I think her name's Miss Topping, but she calls herself
Florine--or Dorine," Francie added.

"Miss Dosson, you're too rare!" Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a
long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. "Then you've been
three to it," she went on; "that accounts for its perfection!"

Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr.
Probert, who stood looking down a