The tears began to flow down her cheeks with determination. Mr. Greyne was terribly upset. “You must cheer up,” he exclaimed. “You must hope for the best.” “Sitting here alone, how can I?” She sobbed. “Sitting here alone—very true!” A sudden thought, a number of sudden thoughts, struck him. “You must not sit here alone.” “Monsieur!” “You must come out. You must drive. You must see the town, distract yourself.” “But how? Can a—a girl go about alone in Algiers?” “Heaven forbid! No; I will escort you.” “Monsieur!” A smile of innocent, girlish joy transformed her face, but suddenly she was grave again. “Would it be right, _convenable_?” Mr. Greyne was reckless. The dog potential rose up in him again. “Why not? And, besides, who knows us here? Not a soul.” “That is true.” “Put on your bonnet. Let us start at once!” “But I do not wear the bonnet. I am not like madame.” “To be sure. Your hat.” And as she flew to obey him, Mr. Eustace Greyne found himself impiously thanking the powers that be for this strange chance of going on the spree with a toque. When Mademoiselle Verbèna returned he was looking almost rakish. He eyed her neat black hat and close-fitting black jacket with a glance not wholly unlike that of a militiaman. In her hand she held a vivid scarlet parasol. “Monsieur,” she said, “it is terrible, this _ombrelle_, when mamma lies at death’s door. But what can I do? I have no other, and cannot afford to buy one. The sun is fierce. I dare not expose myself to it without a shelter.” She seemed really distressed as she opened the parasol, and spread the vivid silk above her pretty black-clothed figure; but Mr. Greyne thought the effect was brilliant, and ventured to say so. As they passed the bureau by the fountain on their way out the stout Frenchwoman cast an approving glance at Mademoiselle Verbèna. “The little rat will not see much more of the little negro now,” she murmured to herself. “After all, the English have their uses.” VI