e was not on the threshold nor on the lobby. I heard a rustling,
however, and on the staircase over the banister I saw the folds of her silk
dress as she descended.

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--_desolee_, 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.'

'Tres-bien!' she said, with an insufferable smi