"You can at least answer my question--Mademoiselle." She turned and faced me with angry eyes. "Well--then. I do not like the ways of English gentlemen." "Ah!" "You told me that you were not poor, but rich--that you had not become my father's secretary because such a situation was necessary, but--but for quite another reason." "Yes." "And I learn immediately afterwards from Mr. Gayerson that you are penniless, and must work for your living." "Merely because Alfred Gayerson knew more than I did," I replied. "I did not know that my father in the heat of a passing quarrel had made such a will--or, indeed, could make it if he so desired. I was not aware of this when I spoke to you--and, knowing it now, I must ask you to consider my words unsaid. You may be sure that I shall not refer to them again, even with the hope of making you merry." She laughed suddenly. "Oh," she said, "I find plenty to amuse me--thank you. You need not give yourself the trouble. _D'ailleurs_," she paused and looked at me with a quick and passing gravity, "that has never been your role, Monsieur l'Anglais--you are not fitted for it." She pulled a long face--such as mine, no doubt, appeared in her eyes--and left me. I had business that took me across the Seine during the morning, and lunched at a club--so did not again see the ladies until later in the day. The desire of speech with Alphonse Giraud on a matter connected with his father's burial took me back to the Rue des Palmiers in the afternoon, when I learnt from the servant that the Baron's son had returned, and was, so far as he knew, still in the house. I went to the drawing-room and there found Madame alone. "I am seeking Monsieur Alphonse Giraud," I said. "Whose good genius you are." "Not that I am aware of, Madame." "No," she said, slowly, "that is just it. In a crowded street the strongest house does not know how many weaker buildings are leaning against it. Alphonse Giraud is not a strong house. He will lean against you if you permit it. So be warned." "By my carelessness," I answered, "I have done Alphonse Giraud a great injury--I have practically ruined him. Surely the least I can do is to attempt to recover for him that which he has lost." Madame de Clericy was of course engaged in needlework. I never saw her fingers idle. It appeared that at this moment she had a difficult stitch to execute. "One never knows," she said, without looking up, "what is the least or the most that men can do. We women look at things in a different light, and therefore cannot say what is right or what is wrong; it is better that men should judge for themselves." "Yes," I said. "Of course," said Madame de Clericy quietly, "if you recover Alphonse's fortune you will earn his gratitude, for without it the Vicomte would never recognise his pretensions to Lucille's hand." "Of course," I answered; and Madame's clever eyes were lifted to my face for a moment. "You think it the least you can do?"