not please
Gonzague, who gave him a gesture of dismissal. "Send the girl to me at
once," he said; and with a still more humble salute Peyrolles quitted the
apartment. When Gonzague was alone he sat for a few minutes staring
before him like one who dreams waking. Then he turned and glanced at the
picture of Louis de Nevers, and an ironical smile wrinkled, more than
time had ever done, his handsome face. Evidently the contemplation of the
picture seemed to afford him a great deal of satisfaction, for he was
still looking at it, and still wearing the same amused smile, when the
door behind him opened and Flora came timidly into the room. She was not
in appearance the same Flora who had dwelt in the caravan and danced for
strangers on the previous day. She was now richly and beautifully dressed
as a great lady should be, but she seemed more awkward in her splendid
garments than she had ever seemed in the short skirts of the gypsy.
Gonzague, whose every sense was acute, heard her come in, though she
stepped very softly, and abandoned his contemplation of the picture of
Louis de Nevers. He turned round and rose to his feet, and made her one
of his exquisite salutations. The girl drew back with a little gasp and
pressed her hands to her bosom.

Gonzague smiled paternally. "Are you afraid of me?"

The girl shook her head dubiously, and there was suspicion in her dark
eyes as she asked: "What do you want of me?"

Gonzague smiled more paternally than before. "I want you to love me," he
said; and then, seeing that the gypsy lifted her brows, he continued,
leisurely: "Do not misunderstand me. Women still are sometimes pleased to
smile on me. I do not want such smiles from you, child. There is another
fate for you. Are you content with your new life?"

Flora answered him with a weary tone in her voice and a weary look on her
pretty face. "You have given me fine clothes and fine jewels. I ought to
be content. But I miss my comrades and my wandering life."

Gonzague was still paternal as he explained: "You must forget your
wandering life. Henceforward you are a great lady. Your father was a
duke."

Flora gave a little gasp, and questioned: "Is my father dead?"

Gonzague allowed his chin to fall upon his breast and an expression of
deep gloom to overshadow his face. "Yes," he said, and his voice was as a
requiem to buried friendship.

Flora's heart was touched by this display of friendship. "And my mother?"
she asked.

Gonza