not being able, for grave reasons, to
aspire to the hand of the heroine, had taken refuge in an icy coldness,
much as it cost him, and as soon as possible had gone away. English
novels are nothing if not moral.

This story, not otherwise interesting, threw a gleam of light on what,
up to that time, had been inexplicable to Jacqueline. He was above all
things a man of honor. He must have perceived that his presence troubled
her. He had possibly seen her when she stole a half-burned cigarette
which he had left upon the table, a prize she had laid up with other
relics--an old glove that he had lost, a bunch of violets he had
gathered for her in the country. Yes! When she came to think of it,
she felt certain he must have seen her furtively lay her hand upon that
cigarette; that cigarette had compromised her. Then it was he must have
said to himself that it was due to her parents, who had always shown him
kindness, to surmount an attachment that could come to nothing--nothing
at present. But when she should be old enough for him to ask her hand,
would he dare? Might he not rashly think himself too old? She must seek
out some way to give him encouragement, to give him to understand that
she was not, after all, so far--so very far from being a young lady--old
enough to be married. How difficult it all was! All the more difficult
because she was exceedingly afraid of him.

It is not surprising that Fraulein Schult, after listening day after
day to such recitals, with all the alternations of hope and of
discouragement which succeeded one another in the mind of her precocious
pupil, guessed, the moment that Jacqueline came to her, in a transport
of joy, to ask her to go with her to the Rue de Prony, that the hero of
the mysterious love-story was no other than Hubert Marien.

As soon as she understood this, she perceived that she should be placed
in a very false position. But she thought to herself there was no
possible way of getting out of it, without giving a great deal too much
importance to a very innocent piece of childish folly; she therefore
determined to say nothing about it, but to keep a strict watch in the
mean time. After all, M. de Nailles himself had given her her orders.
She was to accompany Jacqueline, and do her crochet-work in one corner
of the studio as long as the sitting lasted.

All she could do was to obey.

"And above all not a word to mamma, whatever she may ask you," said
Jacqueline.

And her fat