"Your mother cannot be more important to you than my children are to me. And you must recollect you have not yet been two years with us, Mademoiselle. I don't expect any governess to ask for a holiday till after the second year." "I am very sorry," said Mademoiselle again; "but it is very important for me to go away. I--am not well: I must go--I cannot continue now. It is _plus forte que moi_." "Mademoiselle! it is not your mother, it is this business about your marriage." "Not my marriage; I shall never marry." "Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" cried Mrs Wargrave. "I am sure you want to have him all the time. It will be too ridiculous if for a set of foolish romantic scruples you go and throw a good match away." Mademoiselle made no reply. She stood uneasily moving from one foot to another, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I must, I must get away," she said, quietly, almost under her breath. "It must come to an end. I can do no good while I am kept in agitation. Ah, Mrs Wargrave, let me go." "I wish you would be frank and tell me who he is," said Mrs Wargrave. "I wish you would let me speak to him. Going away is the very last thing you ought to do. To throw away a good match at your age, and with your prospects! I told you before it was criminal, Mademoiselle." Mademoiselle said something under her breath, in her agitation, which sounded like "You do not know," and Mrs Wargrave grew angry. "I don't know? Who knows, then, I wonder? I tell you that for you, in your position, with your mother to think of, it is simple wickedness. If the man were an ogre I'd marry him if I were in your position. Goodness, what have you to do with his family? You make me so impatient I could shake you. You should marry him, whoever he is, if he can give you a good home." "If Madame Wargrave could but spare me for a month--for three weeks!" "I am sure it's not for your own good. You should be proud to stay and marry him, for your own good. Mademoiselle! I tell you, whoever he is, if he were an ogre----" Mademoiselle suddenly laid her hand upon the arm of her patroness. There was a gleam of desperation in her eyes. "You would not say so were I to tell you his name." "I would say so, whatever is his name, for your own good. What _is_ his name?" They stood looking at each other for a moment, both of them excited, Mrs Wargrave full of curiosity, and Claire carried away by the passion of the moment, feeling it the only way to clear herself, to throw off the shadow of double-dealing which she felt upon her: but the crisis was a desperate one, and calmed her in spite of herself. She took her hand from the other's arm. "It is Mr Charles Wargrave," she said. Mrs Wargrave received the shock in all its force, being wholly unprepared for it. She was so startled that her sudden movement shook the very walls. "Mr Charles Wargrave!" she repeated, with a voice of horror. "It can't--it can't be true! Is it true?" To this question Mademoiselle did not answer a word.