Suddenly she straightened herself, and came forward. “Truly, I knew you were arrived, monsieur; and you reintroduce yourself to good company on your return to Méricourt.” “And truly I do not take my cue from a scandalous world to cold-shoulder an old friend.” He came sternly into the dairy, and sat himself down on the slab by the chickens, his legs dangling. “Sit there,” he said, and dragged a chair with his foot to his near neighbourhood. The girl hesitated, shrugged her shoulders, and obeyed. “Monsieur, it is evident, has not learned----” she was beginning. He caught the sentence from her:-- “That you are a saint? No, I have not learned it in these few minutes--unless innuendo is the prerogative of sanctity. I, a sinner, met a fallen woman yesterday, and I pitied her.” Mademoiselle Legrand hung her head. Ned recovered his good-humour and laughed. “Oh, little Sainte Nicette!” he said. “Why do you let me talk to you like this? Because you are a saint? Then I will not take a base advantage of your condition. But shall I finish the portrait, Madonna? I have been brought face to face in Paris with the divine suffering of mothers. I have discovered the secret of the eyes. Shall I finish the portrait, Nicette?” She shook her head. “But think how you could instruct me, girl! The lineaments--the very form and expression; for you have seen them!” “Hush!” she exclaimed, in a terrified whisper. “Oh, monsieur, hush! It is blasphemy; it is terrible. _I_ to pose for the divinity revealed to me! Surely, you are mad!” He leaned down to her as he sat. “Nicette,” he murmured, “there is an old confidence between us, you know, and I recall your fine gift of imagination. Confess that it is all an invention.” “That what is an invention?” “Do you not know? This vision in the woods, then.” She sprang to her feet. A line of red came across her forehead. “You mock me!” she cried. “I might have known that you would; but it is none the less hateful and cruel. Believe or not as you will.” She was enraged as he had never seen her before. “But these offerings,” he said, quite coolly: “the chickens and the little pots of jam, Nicette--or is it guava jelly? One may make a good investment of the imagination, I see.” It was not pleasant of him; but he could be merciless to what he considered a bad example of _escamoterie_. For a moment the girl looked like a very harpy. Her fingers crooked on the bosom of her dress as if she would have liked to lacerate her heart in desperate despite of its assailant. Then, suddenly, she dropped back upon her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, broke into a very pitiful convulsion of weeping. _Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange_!