Engrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week; but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains. Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time—long ago: twenty years ago and more—when she herself had looked and spoken and moved, just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for that. In Marjolaine’s case there could be no reason. No one had crossed her young life—or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant memories of her own youth!—Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable. Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure? In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders. And, to be sure, her own father—she had lost her mother in early youth—had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl’s sentimental nonsense. But she—had she paid enough attention to her daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man—Jack Sayle, of all people in the world!—had won Marjolaine’s heart, why, here were the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind. Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however, and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and would do it. She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her shoulders and gently called her by her name. [Illustration: "SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"]