My remarks became more and more disjointed and she, too, seemed uneasy and absent-minded. At length there was an interval of silence. She broke that silence. “I suppose,” she said, “you will be going back to Mayberry soon.” “Back to Mayberry?” I repeated. “Yes. You and Miss Cahoon will go back there, of course, now that you are strong enough to travel. She told me that the American friends with whom you and she were to visit Switzerland had changed their plans and were going on to Italy. She said that she had written them that your proposed Continental trip was abandoned.” “Yes. Yes, that was given up, of course.” “Then you will go back to England, will you not?” “I don't know. We have made no plans as yet.” “But you will go back. Miss Cahoon said you would. And, when your lease of the rectory expires, you will sail for America.” “I don't know.” “But you must know,” with a momentary impatience. “Surely you don't intend to remain here in Paris.” “I don't know that, either. I haven't considered what I shall do. It depends--that is--” I did not finish the sentence. I had said more than I intended and it was high time I stopped. But I had said too much, as it was. She asked more questions. “Upon what does it depend?” she asked. “Oh, nothing. I did not mean that it depended upon anything in particular. I--” “You must have meant something. Tell me--answer me truthfully, please: Does it depend upon me?” Of course that was just what it did depend upon. And suddenly I determined to tell her so. “Frances,” I demanded, “are you still there--at that place?” “At L'Abbaye. Yes.” “You sing there every night?” “Yes.” “Why do you do it? You know--” “I know everything. But you know, too. I told you I sang there because I must earn my living in some way and that seems to be the only place where I can earn it. They pay me well there, and the people--the proprietors--are considerate and kind, in their way.” “But it isn't a fit place for you. And you don't like it; I know you don't.” “No,” quietly. “I don't like it.” “Then don't do it. Give it up.” “If I give it up what shall I do?” “You know. Come back with us and live with us as you did before. I want you; Hephzy is crazy to have you. We--she has missed you dreadfully. She grieves for you and worries about you. We offer you a home and--” She interrupted. “Please don't,” she said. “I have told you that that is impossible. It is. I shall never go back to Mayberry.” “But why? Your aunt--” “Don't! My aunt is very kind--she has been so kind that I cannot bear to speak of her. Her kindness and--and yours are the few pleasant memories that I have--of this last dreadful year. To please you both I would do anything--anything--except--” “Don't make any exceptions. Come with us. If not to Mayberry, then somewhere else. Come to America with us.” “No.” “Frances--” “Don't! My mind is made up. Please don't speak of that again.”