"Ah! it is a goddess, Mademoiselle, that has deigned to enter the cell where--where--I--amuse myself. It is droll--is it not? I came here to make--what you call--the experiment of your father's fabric. I make myself--ha! ha!--like a workman. Ah, bah! the heat, the darkness, the plebeian motion make my head to go round. I stagger, I faint, I cry out, I fall. But what of that? The great God hears my cry and sends me an angel. Voila!" He attempted an easy gesture of gallantry, but overbalanced himself and fell sideways on the pallet with a gasp. Yet there was so much genuine feeling mixed with his grotesque affectation, so much piteous consciousness of the ineffectiveness of his falsehood, that the young girl, who had turned away, came back and laid her hand upon his arm. "You must lie still and try to sleep," she said gently. "I will return again. Perhaps," she added, "there is some one I can send for?" He shook his head violently. Then in his old manner added, "After Mademoiselle--no one." "I mean--" she hesitated--"have you no friends?" "Friends,--ah! without doubt." He shrugged his shoulders. "But Mademoiselle will comprehend--" "You are better now," said Rosey quickly, "and no one need know anything if you don't wish it. Try to sleep. You need not lock the door when I go; I will see that no one comes in." He flushed faintly and averted his eyes. "It is too droll, Mademoiselle, is it not?" "Of course it is," said Rosey, glancing round the miserable room. "And Mademoiselle is an angel." He carried her hand to his lips humbly--his first purely unaffected action. She slipped through the door, and softly closed it behind her.