“I do not know exactly why ‘it matters to me’—I am quoting her mother,” he explained, “but it happens that I am determined to stand between the child and what would otherwise be the inevitable. It is not that she has the slightest resemblance to—to anyone—which might awaken memory. It is not that. She and her mother are of totally different types. And her detestation of me is unconquerable. She believes me to be the worst of men. When I entered the room into which the woman had trapped her, she thought that I came as one of the creature’s damnable clients. You will acknowledge that my position presents difficulties in the way of explanation to a girl—to most adults in fact. Her childish frenzy of desire to support herself arises from her loathing of the position of accepting support from me. I sympathize with her entirely.” “Mademoiselle Vallé is an intelligent woman,” the Duchess said as though thinking the matter out. “Send her to me and we will talk the matter over. Then she can bring the child.” CHAPTER XXVI As a result of this, her grace saw Mademoiselle Vallé alone a few mornings later and talked to her long and quietly. Their comprehension of each other was complete. Before their interview was at an end the Duchess’ interest in the adventure she was about to enter into had become profound. “The sooner she is surrounded by a new atmosphere, the better,” was one of the things the Frenchwoman had said. “The prospect of an arrangement so perfect and so secure fills me with the profoundest gratitude. It is absolutely necessary that I return to my parents in Belgium. They are old and failing in health and need me greatly. I have been sad and anxious for months because I felt that it would be wickedness to desert this poor child. I have been torn in two. Now I can be at peace—thank the good God.” “Bring her to me tomorrow if possible,” the Duchess said when they parted. “I foresee that I may have something to overcome in the fact that I am Lord Coombe’s old friend, but I hope to be able to overcome it.” “She is a baby—she is of great beauty—she has a passionate little soul of which she knows nothing.” Mademoiselle Vallé said it with an anxious reflectiveness. “I have been afraid. If I were her mother——” her eyes sought those of the older woman. “But she has no mother,” her grace answered. Her own eyes were serious. She knew something of girls, of young things, of the rush and tumult of young life in them and of the outlet it demanded. A baby who was of great beauty and of a passionate soul was no trivial undertaking for a rheumatic old duchess, but—“Bring her to me,” she said.