‘Yes, in his selfish way. He had treated her like a servant, and worse than any servant in a free country would submit to be treated, and he had expected her to wear like a machine. He had always been hard and tyrannical, and his grief, instead of softening him, changed him for the worse. He made his children’s home so wretched, that two of his daughters—Julie and Félicie—went out to service. Their poor mother had taught them all she could; for André Dumarques vowed he wouldn’t waste his money on paying for his daughters to be made fine ladies. She had been educated at the Sacré Cœur, and was quite a lady. She taught them a good deal; but still people said they weren’t accomplished enough to be governesses, so they got situations as lady’s-maids, or humble companions, or something in that way.’ ‘Was Félicie the youngest?’ ‘Yes, and the prettiest. She was the image of her mother. The others had too much of the father in them—thin lips, cold gray eyes, sharp noses. She was all life and sparkle and prettiness; too pretty to go out into the world among strangers at sixteen years old.’ ‘Did she begin the world so young?’ ‘She did. The neighbours wondered that the father should let her go. I, who knew him, it may be, better than most people, for he made no friends, ventured to say as much. “That is too pretty a flower to be planted in a stranger’s garden,” said I. André Dumarques shrugged his shoulders. “What would you?” he asked. “My children must work for their living. I am too poor to keep them in idleness.” In effect, since his wife’s death Dumarques had become a miser. He had been always mean. He had now but one desire; and that was to hoard his money.’ ‘Do you know to whom Félicie went, when she began the world?’