She is going, I thought, to seek an interview with Lady Knollys. She intends to propitiate that dangerous lady; so I amused some eight or ten minutes in watching Cousin Monica's quick march and right-about face upon the parade-ground of the terrace. But no one joined her. 'She is certainly talking to papa,' was my next and more probable conjecture. Having the profoundest distrust of Madame, I was naturally extremely jealous of the confidential interviews in which deceit and malice might make their representations plausibly and without answer. 'Yes, I'll run down and see--see _papa_; she shan't tell lies behind my back, horrid woman!' At the study-door I knocked, and forthwith entered. My father was sitting near the window, his open book before him, Madame standing at the other side of the table, her cunning eyes bathed in tears, and her pocket-handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Her eyes glittered stealthily on me for an instant: she was sobbing--_désolée_, in fact--that grim grenadier lady, and her attitude was exquisitely dejected and timid. But she was, notwithstanding, reading closely and craftily my father's face. He was not looking at her, but rather upward toward the ceiling, reflectively leaning on his hand, with an expression, not angry, but rather surly and annoyed. 'I ought to have heard of this before, Madame,' my father was saying as I came in; 'not that it would have made any difference--not the least; mind that. But it was the kind of thing that I ought to have heard, and the omission was not strictly right.' Madame, in a shrill and lamentable key, opened her voluble reply, but was arrested by a nod from my father, who asked me if I wanted anything. 'Only--only that I was waiting in the school-room for Madame, and did not know where she was.' 'Well, she is here, you see, and will join you up-stairs in a few minutes.' So back I went again, huffed, angry, and curious, and sat back in my chair with a clouded countenance, thinking very little about lessons. When Madame entered, I did not lift my head or eyes. 'Good cheaile! reading,' said she, as she approached briskly and reassured. 'No,' I answered tartly; 'not good, nor a child either; I'm not reading, I've been thinking.' 'Très-bien!' she said, with an insufferable smile, 'thinking is very good also; but you look unhappy--very, poor cheaile. Take care you are not grow jealous for poor Madame talking sometime to your papa; you must not, little fool. It is only for a your good, my dear Maud, and I had no objection you should stay.' '_You_! Madame!' I said loftily. I was very angry, and showed it through my dignity, to Madame's evident satisfaction. 'No--it was your papa, Mr. Ruthyn, who weesh to speak alone; for me I do not care; there was something I weesh to tell him. I don't care who know, but Mr. Ruthyn he is deeferent.' I made no remark.