Mme. de Brecourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately--then she’d see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed their flushed little guest with his sick stare. “You gave information for that? You desired it?” “Why _I_ didn’t desire it--but Mr. Flack did.” “Why do you know such ruffians? Where was your father?” the old man groaned. “I thought he’d just be nice about my picture and give pleasure to Mr. Waterlow,” Francie went on. “I thought he’d just speak about my being engaged and give a little account; so many people in America would be interested.” “So many people in America--that’s just the dreadful thought, my dear,” said Mme. de Brecourt kindly. “Foyons, put it in your muff and tell us what you think of it.” And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal. But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. “I told Gaston I’d certainly do something you wouldn’t like.” “Well, he’ll believe it now!” cried Mme. de Cliche. “My poor child, do you think he’ll like it any better?” asked Mme. de Brecourt. Francie turned upon her beautiful dilated eyes in which a world of new wonders and fears had suddenly got itself reflected. “He’ll see it over there--he has seen it now.” “Oh my dear, you’ll have news of him. Don’t be afraid!” broke in high derision from Mme. de Cliche. “Did HE send you the paper?” her young friend went on to Mr. Probert. “It was not directed in his hand,” M. de Brecourt pronounced. “There was some stamp on the band--it came from the office.” “Mr. Flack--is that his hideous name?--must have seen to that,” Mme. de Brecourt suggested. “Or perhaps Florine,” M. de Cliche interposed. “I should like to get hold of Florine!” “I DID--I did tell him so!” Francie repeated with all her fevered candour, alluding to her statement of a moment before and speaking as if she thought the circumstance detracted from the offence. “So did I--so did we all!” said Mme. de Cliche. “And will he suffer--as you suffer?” Francie continued, appealing to Mr. Probert. “Suffer, suffer? He’ll die!” cried the old man. “However, I won’t answer for him; he’ll tell you himself, when he returns.” “He’ll die?” echoed Francie with the eyes of a child at the pantomime who has found the climax turning to demons or monsters or too much gunpowder. “He’ll never return--how can he show himself?” said Mme. de Cliche. “That’s not true--he’ll come back to stand by me!” the girl flashed out. “How couldn’t you feel us to be the last--the very last?” asked Mr. Probert with great gentleness. “How couldn’t you feel my poor son to be the last--?” “C’est un sens qui lui manque!” shrilled implacably Mme. de Cliche. “Let her go, papa--do let her go home,” Mme. de Brecourt pleaded. “Surely. That’s the only place for her to-day,” the elder sister continued.