the old man’s partiality for her. Unspoken, never visible, there was a stronger link between them than existed with the others of the family. She thought of him with affection. Her mind moved on. She could see the Baron, stumping up and down the earth roads, with “Merde!” and “Name of a name!” at every step; and the dining-room at the château, into which she had been allowed to peep, when running errands from the farm. She could hear Placide’s nasal chant announcing dinner: “Madame la Baronne is served!” and the Baron, still “Merde”-ing and “Name of a name”-ing, and the Baronne’s tearful but dignified “Voyons, Charles!” Paris, Georges was in Paris! Although affectionate in her way, she hardly paused to think of her brother Marcel, giving no sign from his German prison. * * * * * Then she had one of her intuitions. The very thing. She would teach the gossips of Amiens to tell tales about her--and give them something to tell of, all in one blow. The very economy of the idea appealed to her. There were always vacancies in the big Ministries in Paris, she had heard “Papa” say. “Papa!” she almost laughed. He would have his Festivity, after all. He should be made to work it. The idea was so new and beautiful that it actually kept her awake for half an hour after she had blown out her candle--a rare thing for a girl of her habits and physique. The first person who was astonished at the turn of affairs was “Papa.” He became aware, as he snuffed with rage and ill-health at his desk behind the screen by the stove, of kind looks and lingerings. His resentment and small suspicions soon melted. He ventured half-apologetic remarks, was not rebuffed. Nor did she hurry away with the other girls, as she had done all the week since his last propositions. Eventually he timidly complained that he had not had his little Festivity, that his birthday had passed unhonored. Madeleine felt something, almost compunction, but her Fixed Idea soon resumed its empire over her mind. She listened to him.