Mme. de Brecourt came back to her quickly, laying her hand on her arm. “You’re very nervous--you’d much better go home. I’ll explain everything to them--I’ll make them understand. The carriage is here--it had orders to wait.” “I’m not in the least nervous, but I’ve made you all so,” Francie brought out with the highest spirit. “I defend you, my dear young lady--I insist that you’re only a wretched victim like ourselves,” M. de Brecourt remarked, approaching her with a smile. “I see the hand of a woman in it, you know,” he went on to the others; “for there are strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn’t sink to--he can’t, his very organisation prevents him--even if he be the dernier des goujats. But please don’t doubt that I’ve maintained that woman not to be you.” “The way you talk! _I_ don’t know how to write,” Francie impatiently quavered. “My poor child, when one knows you as I do--!” murmured Mme. de Brecourt with an arm round her. “There’s a lady who helps him--Mr. Flack has told me so,” the girl continued. “She’s a literary lady--here in Paris--she writes what he tells her. I think her name’s Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine--or Dorine,” Francie added. “Miss Dosson, you’re too rare!” Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. “Then you’ve been three to it,” she went on; “that accounts for its perfection!” Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire with his back to her. “Mr. Probert, I’m very sorry for what I’ve done to distress you; I had no idea you’d all feel so badly. I didn’t mean any harm. I thought you’d like it.” The old man turned a little, bending his eyes on her, but without taking her hand as she had hoped. Usually when they met he kissed her. He didn’t look angry now, he only looked very ill. A strange, inarticulate sound, a chorus of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they’d like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to measure the droll effect of that speech. “Like it--LIKE IT?” said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if a little afraid of her. “What do you mean? She admits--she admits!” Mme. de Cliche exulted to her sister. “Did you arrange it all that day in the Bois--to punish me for having tried to separate you?” she pursued to the poor child, who stood gazing up piteously at the old man. “I don’t know what he has published--I haven’t seen it--I don’t understand. I thought it was only to be a piece about me,” she said to him. “‘About me’!” M. de Cliche repeated in English. “Elle est divine!” He turned away, raising his shoulders and hands and then letting them fall.