Gonzague seemed to look at the girl sympathetically, but really looked at her critically. He found her so pleasing to his eye that he almost regretted that she had been chosen for the part she had to play, but also he found her on the whole so suited to that part that he felt bound to stifle his regret. "Surely," he said, and smiled kindly upon her. Flora gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "I have always dreamed that I should be a great lady. And dreams come true, you know--the dreams that gypsies dream." Gonzague raised his hand to check her speech. "Forget the gypsies. Forget that the gypsies called you Flora. Your name is Gabrielle." Flora gave a start of surprise. "Gabrielle!" she said. "How strange! That is the name of my dearest friend." It was Gonzague's turn to be surprised, but he never was known to betray an emotion. It was with an air of complete indifference that he asked: "Who is she?" And Flora answered, simply: "A girl I knew and loved when we were living in Spain." Gonzague knew that he was agitated; and that he had every reason to be agitated, but he knew also that no one beholding him would know of his agitation. "What became of her?" he asked, still with the same apparent indifference. And Flora answered as readily as before: "We travelled to France together." "Travelled to France together!" echoed Gonzague. Perhaps, in spite of himself, some hint of keenness was betrayed in the voice he was so studious to keep indifferent, for this time Flora gave question for question, suspiciously: "Why does all this interest you?" Gonzague's voice was perfectly indifferent when he replied: "Everything that concerns you interests me. Tell me; was this other Gabrielle a Spaniard like you?" Flora shook her head. "Oh no. She was French." "Was she, too, an orphan?" Gonzague asked. "Yes," said Flora; "but she had a guardian who loved her like a father." The gypsy girl could not guess what raging passions were masked by the changeless serenity of Gonzague's face. "Who was that?" he asked, as he might have asked the name of some dog or some cat. And he got the answer he expected from the girl: "A young French soldier." Perhaps, again, Gonzague's voice was keener with his next question: "Whose name was--" In this case Flora, suddenly recalling her conversation with Gabrielle on the previous day, became as suddenly cautious. "I have forgotten his name," she said, and looked as if nothing could rekindle her memory. Gonzague affected to be busy with some of the papers that lay before him, and then, at a venture, and as if with no particular purpose in his thoughts, he said: "I wish I could get this Gabrielle to be your companion, child." Flora clapped her hands, and forgot her caution in her joy at the prospect. "Well, that might be done. I will tell you a secret. Gabrielle and her guardian are in Paris."