He saw her pick up a framed photograph. "This is Mr. Morelle's portrait, isn't it? I don't like it." Evie felt on terms with the man. It seemed natural that she should. She had wondered if François would be at Palermo, too. "Yes, Mademoiselle, that is his portrait." Evie frowned critically at the picture. "It is not half good looking enough." "That is possible, Mademoiselle," said François, without enthusiasm. He had never done such a thing before. He marveled at his own temerity, even now. "Mademoiselle, you will not be angry if I say somethings?" he asked, and as he grew more and more agitated, his English took a quainter turn. Evie opened her eyes in astonishment. "No, of course not." "And you must promise not to tell Mr. Morelle." "It depends," hesitated the girl, and then, "I promise." "Mademoiselle," said François a little huskily, "I have a little sister so big as you in Switzerland. Her name is Freda, and, Mademoiselle, when I see you here, I think of her, and I say, I will speak to this good young lady. Mademoiselle, I do not like to see you here!" He said this dramatically. Evie went crimson. "I don't know what you mean." "I have make you cross," said François, in an agony of self-reproach. "You think I am silly, but I speak with a good heart." There was only one way out of this awkward conversation. Evie became easily confidential. She spoke as a woman of the world to a man of the world. "Of course you did," she said. "I appreciate what you say, François. If I saw a girl--well--compromising herself, I mean a girl who hadn't my experience of the world, I'd say the same as you, but--" A knock at the outer door interrupted her. François shot an imploring glance in her direction, and she nodded. "There you are, Ronnie--didn't you say I was to come straight here?" "Hello, Evie," he seemed a little annoyed. "I told you I would meet you at the Statue." Evie was abashed. "Oh, I am sorry," she began, but he went on. "Any letters, François?" "Yes, M'sieur, on the desk." "All right, clear out." But François lingered. "M'sieur." "Well?" asked Ronnie, turning with a scowl. François was ill at ease. "Tomorrow my brother is coming from Interlaken, may I have an evening for myself, M'sieur?" Ronald was angry for many reasons: he was not in the mood to grant favors. "You have Sundays and you have your holidays. That's enough," he said. François went out crestfallen. "I suppose you think I'm unkind," said Ronnie with a laugh, as he helped take off her coat. "But if you give that sort of people an inch, they'll take the earth." He dropped his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "It is lovely to have you here. You're two hours too soon--" "Am I?" she asked in alarm. "I was so upset last night that I don't know what you said." "I said ten o'clock, but it doesn't matter. Only François would have been gone by then. How lovely you are, Evie! How slim and straight and desirable!"