“You must tell me what I have done, Miss Walkinshaw,” I said. “Heaven knows I have few enough friends in this world without losing your good opinion through an offence of whose nature I am entirely ignorant.” “Go away!” she said, pushing my fingers from the side of her chair, that was now being borne towards the town. “Indeed, and I shall not, Miss Walkinshaw, asking your pardon for the freedom,” I said, “for here's some monstrous misconception, and I must clear myself, even at the cost of losing your favour for ever.” She hid her face in her handkerchief and paid no more heed to me. Feeling like a mixture of knave and fool, I continued to walk deliberately by her side all the way into the Rue de la Boucherie. She dismissed the chair and was for going into the house without letting an eye light on young persistency. “One word, Miss Walkinshaw,” I pleaded. “We are a Scottish man and a Scottish woman, our leelones of all our race at this moment in this street, and it will be hard-hearted of the Scottish woman if she will not give her fellow countryman, that has for her a respect and an affection, a chance to know wherein he may have blundered.” “Respect and affection,” she said, her profile turned to me, her foot on the steps, visibly hesitating. “Respect and affection,” I repeated, flushing at my own boldness. “In spite of Clancarty's tales of me?” she said, biting her nether lip and still manifestly close on tears. “How?” said I, bewildered. “His lordship gave me no tales that I know of.” “And why,” said she, “be at such pains to tell me you wondered I should be there?” I got very red at that. “You see, you cannot be frank with me, Mr. Greig,” she said bitterly. “Well, then,” I ventured boldly, “what I should have said was that I feared you would not be there, for it's there I was glad to see you. And I have only discovered that in my mind since you have been angry with me and would not let me explain myself.” “What!” she cried, quite radiant, “and, after all, the red shoon were not without a purpose? Oh, Mr. Greig, you're unco' blate! And, to tell you the truth, I was just play-acting yonder myself. I was only making believe to be angry wi' you, and now that we understand each ither you can see me to my parlour.” “Well, Bernard,” she said to the Swiss as we entered, “any news?” He informed her there was none. “What! no one called?” said she with manifest disappointment. “_Personne, Madame_.” “No letters?” Nor were there any letters, he replied.