“Was there ever such laziness? It’s bad enough in Georgie to be so idle; but then,_ he_ has over-eaten himself.” “And how do you know that I haven’t over-eaten myself, mistress?” asked De Malfort. “You never do that; but you often drink too much—much, much, much too much!” “That’s a slanderous thing to say of your mother’s most devoted servant,” laughed De Malfort. “And pray how does a baby-girl like you know when a gentleman has been more thirsty than discreet?” “By the way you talk—always French. Jarni! ch’dame, n’savons joui d’ n’belle s’rée—n’fam-partie d’ombre. Moi j’ai p’du n’belle f’tune, p’rol’d’nneur! You clip your words to nothing. Aren’t you coming to play hide-and-seek?” “Not I, fair slanderer. I am a salamander, and love the fire.” “Is that a kind of Turk? Good-bye. I’m going to hide.” “Beware of the chests in the gallery, sweetheart,” said her father, who heard only this last sentence, as his daughter ran past him towards the door. “When I was in Italy I was told of a bride who hid herself in an old dower-chest, on her wedding-day—and the lid clapped to with a spring and kept her there for half a century.” “There’s no spring that ever locksmith wrought that will keep down Papillon,” cried De Malfort, sounding a light accompaniment to his words on the guitar strings, with delicatest touch, like fairy music. “I know of better hiding-places,” answered the child, and vanished, banging the great door behind her. She found her aunt with Dorothy Lettsome and her brother and Denzil in the gallery above stairs, walking up and down, and listening with every indication of weariness to the Squire’s discourse about his hunters and running-horses. “Now we are going to have real good sport!” cried Papillon. “Aunt Angy and I are to hide, and you three are to look for us. You must stop in this gallery for ten minutes by the French clock yonder—with the door shut. You must give us ten minutes’ law, Mr. Lettsome, as you did the hare the other day, when I was out with you—and then you may begin to look for us. Promise.” “Stay, little miss, you will be outside the house belike, roaming lord knows where; in the shrubberies, or the barns, or halfway to Oxford—while we are made fools of here.” “No, no. We will be inside the house.” “Do you promise that, pretty lady?” “Yes, I promise.” Mrs. Dorothy suggested that there had been enough of childish play, and that it would be pleasanter to sit in the saloon with her ladyship, and hear Monsieur de Malfort sing. “I’ll wager he was singing when you saw him just now.” “Yes, he is always singing foolish French songs—and I’m sure you can’t understand ’em.” “I’ve learnt the French ever since I was as old as you, Mistress Henriette.” “Ah! that was too late to begin. People who learn French out of books know what it looks like, but not what it sounds like.” “I should be very sorry if I could not understand a French ballad, little miss.”