career in Paris, as they call it, and the way that we have got on and our great pretensions. And a passage about Blanche de Douves, Raoul's sister, who had that disease—what do they call it?—that she used to steal things in shops: do you see them reading that? And how did he know such a thing? it's ages ago—it's dead and buried!"
"You told me, you told me yourself," said Francie, quickly. She turned red the instant she had spoken.
"Don't say it's you—don't, don't, my darling!" cried Mme. de Brécourt, who had stared at her a moment. "That's what I want, that's what you must do, that's what I see you this way for, first, alone. I've answered for you, you know; you must repudiate every responsibility. Margot suspects you—she has got that idea—she has given it to the others. I have told them they ought to be ashamed, that it's an outrage to you. I have done everything, for the last hour, to protect you. I'm your godmother, you know, and you mustn't disappoint me. You're incapable, and you must say so, face to face, to my father. Think of Gaston, chérie; he will have seen it over there, alone, far from us all. Think of his horror and of his faith, of what he would expect of you." Mme. de Brécourt hurried on, and her companion's bewilderment deepened on seeing that the tears had risen to her eyes and were pouring down her cheeks. "You must say to my father, face
