"In which case" (evidently that of taking for granted that Bulstrode was less good than they had supposed), "in that case we shall put in a plea ourselves for Simone and adopt her." Madame's voice, now in full and customary volume, expressed frankly _her_ goodness. "We have five children and our means are modest, but"--and she put it sublimely--"_one is not a mother for nothing_." Her tirade, however, was quite lost on Bulstrode, who was occupied with his own projects of benevolence. Turning to this contingent of the _hôtel meublé_ a back scarcely more imperturbable than his face had been, he went out of the room to the terrace, where Simone sat just as he had left her. She was, on her low chair, so tiny that in order more nearly than ever before to approach her little point of view, to come into her little sphere, Bulstrode knelt down on one knee. "Don't look so frightened, my child. Nothing will harm you--I assure you of that; don't you"--he called her loyally to answer--"don't you believe me, Simone?" The little thing drew in a struggling breath and whispered: "Oui, m'sieu." "Good!" He was smiling at her and had taken her ice-cold, dirty, little hands. "You are fond of me, Simone--you like a little M'sieu Balstro'?" "Oh," she caught at her frightened voice and more clearly whispered, "oh, oui, m'sieu!" "Bien encore!" He wanted tactfully to break the ice which shock and terror had formed around the poor little heart, and yet not to prolong the moment. "_Voyons_," he said to her lightly, as if he were only to bid her come and play in his garden, and not ask her to decide her destiny. "_Voyons_, how would you like to come and live with me? to have toys and pretty clothes and good things to eat--to be"--the bachelor put it bravely--"to be _my_ little girl. How, Simone, would you like it?" If further startled she was humanized by his warmth, which was melting her; her breast heaved, her lips trembled, and she asked: "Et puis--maman?" Here Madame Branchard, in whom all feelings were subordinate to curiosity and motherhood, had approached until she stood directly behind the two on the terrace. Tears had sprung to her eyes and she sniffled and wiped them frankly away with her hand. Bulstrode, singularly relieved by her appearance, turned and asked her, "What does she then know?" "Nothing, m'sieur, nothing at all." Simone got up on her feet and her big doll fell with a crash on the marble of the terrace and broke in a dozen pieces, but the catastrophe did not touch her. "And maman?" she repeated. "Where is she? She did not come home last night?" Bulstrode had descended to one knee in order to approach her, but Madame Branchard got down on both knees and tenderly put her arms around the child.