“Sir,” said she, “my mistress wishes to see you at once.” The banker got up directly. “I am coming,” said he; then, taking the hand of his client, he led her to the door, repeating: “Do not worry yourself; all the difficulties shall be got through. Come again, and we will talk them over;” and before she could thank him he was half way to his daughter’s apartment. Flavia had summoned her father to show him a new costume which had just been sent home by Van Klopen, and which pleased her greatly. Flavia’s costume was a masterpiece of fashionable bad taste, which makes women look all alike and destroys all appearance of individuality. It was a mass of frills, furbelows, fringes, and flutings of rare hue and form, making a series of wonderful contrasts. Standing in the middle of the room, with every available candle alight, for the day was fading away, she was so dainty and pretty that even the _bizarre_ dress of Van Klopen’s was unable to spoil her appearance. As she turned round, she caught sight of her father in a mirror, panting with the haste he had made in running upstairs. “What a time you have been!” said she pettishly. “I was with a client,” returned he apologetically. “You ought to have got rid of him at once. But never mind that; look at me and tell me plainly what you think of me.” She had no need to put the question, for the most intense admiration beamed in his face. “Exquisite, delicious, heavenly!” answered he. Flavia, accustomed as she was to her father’s compliments, was highly delighted. “Then you think that he will like me?” asked she. She alluded to Paul Violaine, and the banker heaved a deep sigh as he replied,-- “Is it possible that any human being exists that you cannot please?” “Ah!” mused she, “if it were any one but he, I should have no doubts or misgivings.” Martin Rigal took a seat near the fire, and, drawing his daughter to him, pressed a fond kiss upon her brow, while she with the grace and activity of a cat, nestled upon his knee. “Suppose, after all, that he should not like me,” murmured she; “I should die of grief.” The banker turned away his face to hide the gloom that overspread it. “Do you love him, then, even now?” asked he. She paused for a moment, and he added, “More than you do me?” Flavia pressed her father’s hand between both her palms and answered with a musical laugh, “How silly you are, papa! Why, of course I love you. Are you not my father? I love you too because you are kind and do all I wish, and because you are always telling me that you love me. Because you are like the cupids in the fairy stories--dear old people who give their children all their heart’s desire; I love you for my carriage, my horses, and my lovely dresses; for my purse filled with gold, for my beautiful jewelry, and for all the lovely presents you make me.” Every word she spoke betrayed the utter selfishness of her soul, and yet her father listened with a fixed smile of delight on his face.