“Have you seen it--have they sent it to you--?” his wife asked, thrusting the paper toward her. “It’s quite at your service!” But as Francie neither spoke nor took it she tossed it upon the sofa, where, as it opened, falling, the girl read the name of the Reverberator. Mme. de Cliche carried her head very far aloft. “She has nothing to do with it--it’s just as I told you--she’s overwhelmed,” said Mme. de Brecourt, remaining at the window. “You’d do well to read it--it’s worth the trouble,” Alphonse de Brecourt remarked, going over to his wife. Francie saw him kiss her as he noted her tears. She was angry at her own; she choked and swallowed them; they seemed somehow to put her in the wrong. “Have you had no idea that any such monstrosity would be perpetrated?” Mme. de Cliche went on, coming nearer to her. She had a manner of forced calmness--as if she wished it to be understood that she was one of those who could be reasonable under any provocation, though she were trembling within--which made Francie draw back. “C’est pourtant rempli de choses--which we know you to have been told of--by what folly, great heaven! It’s right and left--no one’s spared--it’s a deluge of the lowest insult. My sister perhaps will have told you of the apprehensions I had--I couldn’t resist them, though I thought of nothing so awful as this, God knows--the day I met you at Mr. Waterlow’s with your journalist.” “I’ve told her everything--don’t you see she’s aneantie? Let her go, let her go!” cried Mme. de Brecourt all distrustfully and still at the window. “Ah your journalist, your journalist, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliche. “I’m very sorry to have to say anything in regard to any friend of yours that can give you so little pleasure; but I promise myself the satisfaction of administering him with these hands a dressing he won’t forget, if I may trouble you so far as to ask you to let him know it!” M. de Cliche fingered the points of his moustache; he diffused some powerful scent; his eyes were dreadful to Francie. She wished Mr. Probert would say something kind to her; but she had now determined to be strong. They were ever so many against one; Gaston was far away and she felt heroic. “If you mean Mr. Flack--I don’t know what you mean,” she said as composedly as possible to M. de Cliche. “Mr. Flack has gone to London.” At this M. de Brecourt gave a free laugh and his brother-in-law replied: “Ah it’s easy to go to London.” “They like such things there; they do them more and more. It’s as bad as America!” Mme. de Cliche declared. “Why have you sent for me--what do you all want me to do? You might explain--I’m only an American girl!” said Francie, whose being only an American girl didn’t prevent her pretty head from holding itself now as high as Mme. de Cliche’s.