“Thank you!” she scoffed, with a derisive inclination of her big floppy hat. “That’s kind of you to mention it _en passant_, but let me urge you to realize that you give no sign of it.” “You cannot expect to have a monopoly of my affections!” muttered Basil, driven to desperation. Marguerite bent forward and looked straight at him. “What did you say ... a monopoly?” Her voice was now very cool and nonchalant. Basil caught the look and his breath at one and the same time. Where had this child learned to speak like that? Atavism? The Marquise of the bird-suite at Plenhöel could not have done better if talking to the canaille at the foot of the guillotine; and not for the life of him could he utter a word in self-defense. “A monopoly!” the “Gamin” repeated. “You use funny expressions sometimes, my cousin, and I must say that you amuse me very much.” “You don’t amuse me!” he interposed, hotly. “I don’t know, moreover, why you take my words so greatly amiss. What I am trying to make you understand is that if I do not come here as--well, as often as I could wish, it is because I have other calls upon--er--my time; imperative demands upon--my attention. My duty--you understand, is to--” She did not let him finish. “You are the best judge of your conduct and the employment of your time, and I regret having--twitted you about it. I am afraid it was very silly of me, but you see I am still very much the mere child you used to laugh with at Plenhöel. You may remember, perhaps, our last little encounter on that subject?” She laughed, rose, and in a slightly constrained tone added: “Hadn’t you better go and see papa? He is at the top of the house, grubbing in the dust of a wonderful garret, full of delightful _vieilleries_, together with some workmen who are supposed to repair pipes, or leaders--I don’t exactly know which. Papa is extremely proud of his fifteenth-century garrets, let me tell you! One never knows where vanity is going to take root!” Basil had risen slowly, and was gazing at her as she made her way to the bay leading through to the next salon, and his lips were not very steady when he spoke again: “You are not angry, Marguerite?” This timidly, almost in a whisper. She turned back with a queer little laugh. “Angry?” she asked. “Not a bit of it. It isn’t worth while. But hark you, Cousin Basil, don’t make any mistake. The ‘Gamin’ is a better friend of yours than you think. I may not yet be a young lady with grand manners. I am a good little chap, however--a tomboy, if you like; but try me if you ever need a real, genuine, bona-fide, faithful-to-the-end friend, and you’ll see!” She pirouetted and, beckoning to him to follow, raced up the long flight of secondary stairs which led to the very roof.