‘The woman doesn’t understand her own language,’ thought Miss Coyle. ‘One of those Swiss-French-women one hears about, I dare say, who come from the top of Mont Blanc, and call themselves natives of Paris.’ And then she proceeded to explain herself at more length. ‘Mademoiselle Harefield a été terriblement choquée par le mort de sa père. Il mourissait sous des circonstances peniblement suspicieux. Les gens de cette village ont dit des penible choses sur son mort. Je toujours desire à penser le mieux touchant mes voisins, mais je confesse que le mort de Monsieur Harefield était très suspicieux. Mademoiselle Harefield est très riche. Je ne souhaite pas de mal à elle, mais elle est une jeune personne que je ne pouvais pas me justifier en recevant dans mon maison. Mon maison est très petit, mais mes principes sont fortement fixés.’ This French _à la_ Stratford-atte-Bowe was quite incomprehensible to Madame Leonard, but she perceived dimly that Miss Coyle was not friendly to Beatrix. She bristled with indignation, and replied in a torrent of rapid words which might have been Chaldee for any comprehension Miss Coyle had of their meaning, but the little woman’s gestures told that worthy lady how much she had offended. ‘Ah! vous es une temps-serveur comme vos meilleurs,’ she exclaimed, when the Frenchwoman paused for breath. ‘Mademoselle Harefield a beaucoup de monnaie. C’est assez pour vous. Mais quand vous laissez elle je vous promis que ce sera difficile pour vous à trouver un autre situation.’ And with this assertion that Madame Leonard was a time-server like her betters, and that she would find it difficult to get another situation when she left Miss Harefield, Miss Coyle put up a brown holland parasol, which seemed made expressly for virtuous poverty, and vanished in a cloud of dust, like an angry goddess. ‘But this woman is mad! I comprehend not one word that she says,’ exclaimed Madame Leonard inwardly. ‘Who can have anything to say against that dear angel? She is an envious, a malignant.’ The warm-hearted little Frenchwoman had too much delicacy to speak of Miss Coyle’s outburst of spite to Beatrix. She was puzzled by it, but in no wise influenced against her pupil, whom she had taken to her heart. CHAPTER XVI. I ONLY LEARNED TO DOUBT AT LAST.