“Oh, do be quiet, Launcelot,” she cried falling back on the dense weapon of her authority; “of course there aren’t two Gods. I shall send for Marie to take you away!” This threat closed the discussion. The child went back to the window, and gazed wistfully at the roofs, still wondering at his unanswered prayer. Millicent showed Cynthia her flat. Cynthia began to understand the pathetic concealments. They were very poor. “We manage to have good times, though,” Millicent explained. “We get around and see things. Men don’t like women being _too_ economical, and I don’t believe in it myself. They just spend and spend, and then make a row over the bills. I don’t see why we shouldn’t spend too; it don’t make much more of a row, for they put it down to us anyway! But it’s very unfortunate our having that child!” She cast an impatient glance at the little fellow in his odd-shaped, out-grown clothes. “Sometimes I positively don’t know which way to turn. His father and I don’t know what to make of him—he’s that funny! It doesn’t rightly seem as if he was our child!” “He’s a dear little fellow,” said Cynthia pityingly; “I wish you would let me take him home for this afternoon, I would bring him back at bedtime. I shall be all alone.” “Why, that’s real sweet of you, Cynthia,” said Mrs. Perval. “Clifton and I want so much to have a nice afternoon with some French friends of ours—Monsieur le Comte de Mouselle and his sister. He’s the most perfectly charming man. Do you know him?” Cynthia shook her head. Millicent tittered. “He’s just wild about _me_,” she said, “but of course I know how to deal with him. _They_ can’t take me in, you bet! but I’ll be real pleased,” she added, seeing Cynthia’s attention wander, “to let you have Launcelot for this afternoon as soon as Marie can get him ready.” Ten minutes later the two left the flat. Mrs. Perval, her hands on her hips, talking to them as they went. “Now, Launcelot, be sure you’re a good boy, and mind what you say. Cynthia, don’t let him worry you—please. I’ll be _real_ pleased to see your brother again, Cynthia. Give him my love, and tell him——” Whatever she was to tell him was lost on the way downstairs. Cynthia and the boy felt suddenly free, their eyes sparkled, they clasped each other’s hands tightly—the world lay before them, the great glittering Paris world, rich with delights. A French-woman with bright, bright eyes passed them. The boy pressed a little closer to Cynthia. “The streets roar so,” he said fearfully. “Do you think it’s at all likely there’s any lions about?” “They are always careful to shut them up,” Cynthia explained, “when boys go out with friends.”