All these considerations gave a sort of fatality to her quarrel with Leonard, but they did not induce any kinder feeling towards Annette. She regarded her, if not as the author, at least as the tool and messenger, of evil; and Annette was quickly made to feel her position. Of course she was angered by it. And Annette was easily made angry at this time, for Achille had never been so provoking and unmanageable. In spite of her complaints, he had lately spent all his days with De Singeron, who was now on the point of sailing for France; and the episode of Leonard’s duel had been specially aggravating, because she had not been taken into confidence concerning it. And with that singular obtuseness common to selfish people, she considered Mrs. Bloommaert’s coolness and Sappha’s constant refusals to see her as a quite uncalled-for show of offence. She told herself she had only repeated what every one was saying, and that if Sappha had any sense of what was proper and respectable she would have been grateful for her candour. “People are always asking to be told the truth,” she complained, “and then when you put yourself out of the way to tell it, they are sure to be angry at you.” When three weeks had passed in this uncomfortable manner, Annette began seriously to miss her accustomed sources of that familiar friendship which admits of confidence and some showing of individuality. She awoke one morning with a sense of isolation and of not being properly loved and cared for; that was too intolerable to be endured longer, and taking little Jonaca with her as a kind of peacemaker, she called on her aunt and Sappha. As the carriage drew up at the Bloommaert house she saw Sappha rise, and when she entered the parlour only Mrs. Bloommaert was present. “Good-morning, aunt Carlita! I have brought Jonaca to see you.” Mrs. Bloommaert kissed the babe, and said she “looked well,” and then resumed her sewing. “Where is Sappha, aunt?” “She is in her room. She is not well, and I cannot disturb her.” “Oh, indeed, aunt, I saw her as I passed the window. She need not run away from me.” “Has Sappha run away from you? Why has she done that?” “I suppose because I told her some things about Leonard Murray. It was right for her to know them; but I have no doubt, now that Leonard has run away, she blames me for all his faults.” “Leonard has not run away, and it is very wrong and very spiteful in you to make such remarks.” “Nobody knows where he is, and he has left New York. What do you call that, aunt?” “I call it minding his own affairs, and as for saying no one knows where he is, that is a lie. Because he did not tell Annette St. Ange where he was going, is that proof that he has told no one? Indeed, Annette, if you can believe it, there are a few people of consequence in New York beside yourself--and Mr. St. Ange.”