"Very true," returned Mr. Welbourne, solemnly misunderstanding him. "Our young friend should not be judged harshly for what is misfortune rather than fault. What is to be expected of an ignorant and entirely brainless girl, vain and thoughtless, who has evidently never been in any decent society? She is too young and too inexperienced to be aware of her own defects, to which her kind and indulgent parents are affectionately blind----" "I've seen her momma squirm at her antics more than once," Mrs. Dinwiddie put in. "If some kind and judicious friend could but tell her----" "But who'll bell the cat? Nobody wants to be clawed." "--She would doubtless correct herself--she is young." "Not she; she's a heartless little cat. So spiteful," cried a female voice. "If somebody would only lock her up while she's correcting herself," sighed Ermengarde, eliciting variously expressed but unanimous agreement in her suggestion. In the meantime M. Isidore had stolen one more glance at the victim on the block, discovering the mournful spectacle of Dorris on her knees between the two nefariously appropriated chairs, her arms on the seat of one, her face in her hands, trying to stifle bitter sobs. Her position was truly unfortunate. A comfortable matron had appropriated a seat at the foot of the steps, and was tranquilly perusing a paper through the glasses she held, occasionally looking up and expressing mild wonder to a daughter a little way off at the continuous talk and merriment going on outside on the path--this lady even audibly entertained the idea of going out to see for herself what was forward--and, besides not being able to leave her now distasteful eminence without passing her, poor Dorris feared she would come up to her, little knowing that the good lady was purposely stationed there to cut off her retreat and ensure her sufficient castigation. The sight was more than the kind-hearted little Frenchman could bear. Once more he sprang down and ran into the midst of the gossipers, whispering to one after the other, "Mais elle pleure, elle pleure à chaudes larmes." "After all," commented the thin man with unconscious cruelty, in the sudden silence that followed these words: "vulgarity is not vice. It is involuntary and unconscious." That was the last, worst stripe of all, that and M. Isidore's knowledge and compassionate betrayal of her sufferings. "Vulgarity." The word blistered her ears; she caught up a scarf, threw it over her face, and fled down the marble steps, past the comfortable matron, nearly upsetting her, and through the grounds, dashing in her wild career against some one, she neither knew nor cared whom.