"It does not matter, for you will never see them," replied the old lady, who was obviously disturbed and displeased. "You will never go to India, make yourself easy about thatt." "Oh, dear auntie," said the girl suddenly, sinking on her knees, and putting both her arms round her friend's dumpy figure, "you know very well that it is not like you to talk in this way. You know that you can make me very happy. You load me with diamonds and pearls, far more than I want; give me a few precious words--they are of more value to me than jewels. Do tell me something about my father, and above all"--with a sudden impulsive movement--"my mother. Do, darling, please." And the petitioner drew the old woman into a yet closer embrace, and imprinted warm kisses on her ugly, lipless mouth. "Well, then," gasped Madame, a little breathlessly, "you are such a coax! I suppose I must! Your father is a gentleman, of old, old family--he looks like a duke. He was in the Army long ago, but he was hard up, and so he had to leave. He has now a civil post." "And my mother?" Verona's lips dwelt lingeringly on the word; there was a strange expression in her eye. "Oh, no, no! She is not much! She is not a friend of mine. No, no, I do not like her; but she was once a beauty. Now, Verona," suddenly releasing herself, "that is enough. No, but too much. Be satisfied. I am your father and mother, and sisters and brothers. They are Indian people, with Indian notions, and they do not want you. You are not one of them--and never can be one of them." "No," agreed her hearer, half under her breath. "Gains involve losses"--the saying flashed into her mind with cruel opportuneness, and Verona realised with a pang that she had gained a life of luxurious ease, in exchange for her own people and her father's house. "Oh, no, no, they do not want you," reiterated Madame, "'the flower returns not to the branch,' as Baptista Lopez would say: she and I were at school together. My! what a girl for proverbs!" "Do they ever write?" ventured Verona. "There, now, you see what I have put in your head!" cried Madame angrily. "I am sorry I told you one single word; it is all useless, foolish talk. I am tired. Ring for Pauline, and I will go to my bed." As she spoke she rose from her chair with Verona's assistance, then grasped her arm, and tottered painfully out of the room. * * * * * Madame's adopted daughter had led a wandering life, until she was eight years old, and was supremely ignorant of what the word "home" implied. Madame had surely some gipsy blood in her veins (and was not averse to the idea). She drifted about the Continent from one fashionable hotel to another, with a retinue of servants, tons of luggage, a parrot, a poodle, and a child.