She shook her head reprovingly. "I don't know," she said, "that I approve of your calling France--the mouse." "I only did so in order to drive my parable still further home." Then as she looked a little puzzled, he continued--speaking very slowly this time and with an intensity of feeling which was quite different to his usual pleasant, good-tempered, oft-times flippant manner: "Mademoiselle Crystal--if you will allow me to speak of such an insignificant person as I am--I am at present in the position of the mouse with regard to your father and yourself--the lions of my parable. You might so easily have devoured me, you see," he added with a quaint touch of humour. "Well! the time may come when you may have need of a friend, just as I had need of one when I came here--a stranger in a strange land. Events will move with great rapidity in the next few days, Mademoiselle Crystal, and the mouse might at any time be in a position to render a service to the lion. Will you remember that?" "I will try, Monsieur," she replied. But already her pride was once more up in arms. She did not like his tone, that air of protection which his attitude suggested. And indeed she could not think of any eventuality which would place the Comte de Cambray de Brestalou in serious need of a tradesman for his friend. Then as quickly again her mood softened and as she raised her eyes to his he saw that they were full of tears. "Indeed! indeed!" she said gently, "I do deserve your contempt, Sir, for my shrewishness and vixenish ways. How can I--how can any of us--afford to turn our backs upon a loyal friend? To-day too, of all days, when that awful enemy is once more at our gates! Oh!" she added, clasping her hands together with a sudden gesture of passionate entreaty, "you are English, Sir--a friend of all those gallant gentlemen who saved my dear father and his family from those awful revolutionaries--you will be loyal to us, will you not? The English hate Bonaparte as much as we do! you hate him too, do you not? you will do all you can to help my poor father through this awful crisis? You will, won't you?" she pleaded. "Have I not already offered you my humble services, Mademoiselle?" he rejoined earnestly. Indeed this was a very serious ordeal for quiet, self-contained Bobby Clyffurde--an Englishman, remember--with all an Englishman's shyness of emotion, all an Englishman's contempt of any display of sentiment. Here was this beautiful girl--whom he loved with all the passionate ardour of his virile, manly temperament--sitting almost at his feet, he looking down upon her fair head, with its wealth of golden curls, and into her blue eyes which were full of tears.