"She's a fish," informed the child tranquilly. And Bulstrode, although startled, could believe it. It too perfectly accounted for the cold-blooded indifference to this offspring. Not even a mermaid could have been guilty of so little care for her child. Still, he repeated: "A fish?" "Oui, a devil-fish in the aquarium at Bostock's. Oh, que c'est beau!" she clasped her little hands. "Maman wears a costume of red--quite a small, thin dress," she described eagerly. "And it is all spangles, like fire when she dives into the water. I have been; the waiter at the café downstairs took me. I screamed. I thought maman was drowned. But no--she comes up always!" The child threw her head back and lifted her eyes in ecstasy. "C'est magnifique!" "What is your mother's name?" "Mademoiselle Lascaze." "And yours?" "Simone." "What do you do all day, Simone?" "I wash and cook and sew and play--I have much to do--oh, much." She assumed an important air. "The bad air of the room makes maman ill, so she's out--'to breathe,' she says--and she locks me safely in. I play Bostock and dive like maman. And sometimes"--she lowered her voice, and looking back to see if they were alone--confided, "I cry." "Ah!" sympathized Bulstrode. "But, yes," she insisted, "when maman forgets to come home, and the night is so black; then the seamstress next door knocks on the wall, and I knock back for company." "I see," he understood gently, "for company." He rang for Prosper. "You will conduct mademoiselle home, Prosper, and give her everything she needs for her kitchen always." "Yes, monsieur; I knew that monsieur would----" At sight of Prosper the mite gathered up her voluminous skirts and bade her new friend a cordial good-by. From the corrupted Prosper Bulstrode extracted what he wished to know concerning the child. "It is of a scandalousness, monsieur! Four nights of the seven the poor little object is alone. The mother appears to have money enough, she pays her rent regularly, and there is therefore nothing to do. She sometimes even fetches her companions home with her, and Simone, when she is not making sport for them, is tied to a chair to keep her from falling off in her sleep." Bulstrode expressed himself strongly, violently for him, went to see a lawyer and a charitable French countess and found out that so long as the mother did not actually ill-treat the child she could not be replaced by any other guardian. "Mon cher ami," said the spirituelle lady, "leave the fish to her deviltry, and her child in her care. We are _fin de race_, if you like, and in direct opposition to your American progressive schemes, but we have a tradition that the family is sacred, and that, however bad it may be, a child is better off in its home than elsewhere. You will find it difficult to replace a mother by a _machine_ or an _institution_, believe me."