Accordingly, she resumed her seat on the edge of the inverted clothes-basket, and, taking her crochet needles out of her pocket, set to work at the pincushion-cover she had half finished, with the view of dismissing the subject entirely from her mind. She had, however, made but half-a-dozen loops when she paused, and, stretching out her foot, drew the letter towards her along the boards; then she made two or three more loops—all wrong—and then looked down sideways, like a bird, at the note, to read the address on the floor; but, unluckily, the letter was face downwards, so, upon second thoughts, she began to think that, as the thing was there, she might as well see what was in it; for, whether she read it or not, the Frenchman, of course, would make certain that she _had_,—and so would Miss Wewitz, for the matter of that, if she came to find out anything about it; so, as she wasn’t going to be suspected unjustly, she’d just have a peep, and see what ever he could want in writing to her? Miss Chutney took up the letter—read it—and, as she did so, the blood mounted to her cheeks, suffusing her ears with her blushes. It was filled with the same high-flown and voluptuous sentiment, and the same exaggerated terms of admiration, as the Count de Sanschemise had poured into her ear only a few hours before. It was grateful, nevertheless, to the weak girl to think she was so much admired; she contrasted in her own mind the difference of the terms in which the Frenchman addressed her from those in which Miss Wewitz had spoken of her, and it was no little consolation to her, in her punishment, to believe that there was one who thought well of her. But still he could not possibly mean all he said. How could he know enough of her to tell what kind of a girl she was in so a short time? Oh, it was merely what every Frenchman said to every girl, and she was foolish, very foolish, to fancy otherwise. As this varying train of reflections was passing through Miss Chutney’s mind, the fishing-rod again appeared at the window, and again, after the same movements had been gone through, the hook was jerked into the room, with a slip of paper attached, on which was written, in large French characters— _“Repondez vite, mon souris adorable!”_ Miss Chutney could not help ejaculating, “Well, what impudence! Besides, I’ve got nothing to say to the man,” she added; “and even if I had, I’m sure I’ve got nothing to say it with up here.” Then the thought suddenly struck her, that if she were to give the gentleman to understand as much, he might remain quiet, for he’d soon get tired of writing to her when he found that he could get no answer; “and if he goes on in this way, with that fishing-rod continually being poked up to my window,” she added, “old Wewitz is sure, before long, to find it out somehow, for I do believe she’s got eyes in her back hair.”