It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed upon by an anxiety that really troubled her, her countenance did not look sad or solicitous, as other people's would, but simply wicked. Her great gaunt mouth was compressed and drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyes glared with a dismal scowl. At last she said suddenly-- 'Are you ever grateful, Maud?' 'I hope so, Madame,' I answered. 'And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would a you do great deal for a person who would run _risque_ for your sake?' It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor Meg Hawkes, whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or cowardice of her lover, Tom Brice, I never doubted; and I grew at once wary and reserved. 'I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, Madame. How can anyone serve me at present, by themselves incurring danger? What do you mean?' 'Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? Would you not like better some other arrangement?' 'Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; but I see no use in talking of them; they are not to be,' I answered. 'What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?' enquired Madame. 'You mean, I suppose, you would like better to go to Lady Knollys?' 'My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his consent nothing can be done!' 'He weel never consent, dear cheaile.' 'But he _has_ consented--not immediately indeed, but in a short time, when his affairs are settled.' '_Lanternes_! They will never be settle,' said Madame. 'At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly seems very happy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very glad to leave Bartram-Haugh, at all events.' 'But your uncle weel bring you back there,' said Madame, drily. 'It is doubtful whether he will ever return to Bartram himself,' I said. 'Ah!' said Madame, with a long-drawn nasal intonation, 'you theenk I hate you. You are quaite wrong, my dear Maud. I am, on the contrary, very much interested for you--I am, I assure you, dear a cheaile.' And she laid her great hand, with joints misshapen by old chilblains, upon the back of mine. I looked up in her face. She was not smiling. On the contrary, her wide mouth was drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before, and she gazed on my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes. I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face so often immeasurably worse than any other expression she could assume; but this lack-lustre stare and dismal collapse of feature was more wicked still. 'Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you in her charge, what would a you do then for poor Madame?' said this dark spectre.