"No, no, Milor Thomas, nevaire now," cried Justine, "_pas de petites soupers_. I am engage." "Engaged, are you? What, to be married?" "Yes, milor, to be married." "Then good luck to you, ma'amselle. But I say, you are a nice one, you are." "I do you not understand, sir." "Not understand?" cried Tom, catching her by the wrist. "None of your nonsense. Come now, you were in the secret." "Sir, I will never divulge the secret of her ladyship; no, not even to milor." "Get out!" "You loose my arm, milor. Her ladyship wait for me." "So do I," said Tom. "Hang her ladyship's hair-dye and all her other secrets; I mean about the organ--Mr Melton. Ah, you're a nice one, Justine." "Milor, you think I know about that tair-rible affaire?" cried Justine very Frenchly. "Yes, and so you did." "Faith of a woman, sir; it is not ter-r-rue," cried Justine, excitedly. "Gammon! Come, Justine, the game's up, and I know you were at the bottom of it all." "_Non--non--non--non--non--non_," cried Justine, shaking her head quite dangerously. "_Oui--oui--oui--oui--oui_," said Tom. "Now come, confess." "And you go tell her ladyship, you bad, weeked lil man." "Not I. I'm only too glad things have turned out so right." "You deed not like Sir Viltaire?" "Like him!" "You will not tell her ladyship, I confess," said Justine in a mysterious, whisper. "You will not what you English call ze peach." "Peach? not I, old girl. Come, you did know?" Justine screwed up her eyes, and made her mouth a tight line as she laughed silently. "Then you put Mr Melton up to the dodge?" "_Parole d'honneur_, no, Milor Tom. Ze plot was hatch by Monsieur Shairlie himself. I say noding about ze hair come out," she added to herself. "Well, all I can say is, that Charley Melton was a plucky one. And you knew this all the time?" "Yes, milor." "You're a deep one, Justine." "I love ze secret, monsieur, and I cannot bear to see Miladi Maude soffaire." "So you helped, eh?" "Faith of a woman, no, sare; I only look on, and see and say noding at all." "By George, Justine, you've been a trump! and I'll give you a ring for this." "Then give me dat one now, sare," said Justine, sharply, as she pointed to the signet on Tom's finger. "But that's too big and ugly for you, my girl. It is a gentleman's ring." "_Ma foi_, Milor Thomas, do I not tell you I have a gentleman?" "Then you're going to marry old waxworks." "No, no, sare, I go to be Madame Launay when we return; and if Milor Tom do require my help--a thank you, ze ring is _charmant_--you shall say to me, `Justine, her ladyship go to marry _la belle_ Ma'amselle Tryphie to Sir Viltaire,' I am at your sairvice, for I am the guardian of her ladyship's secret, but _vive l'amour_." "_Vive l'amour_, Justine," cried Tom, giving her a kiss. "Bad, weeked lil mans. But I forgive you. I go to her ladyship. _Au revoir_."