to face that you are incapable—you are stainless."
"Stainless?" Francie repeated. "Of course I knew he wanted to write a piece about the picture—and about my marriage."
"About your marriage—of course you knew. Then, wretched girl, you are at the bottom of all!" wailed Mme. de Brécourt, flinging herself away from her, falling back on the sofa, covering her face with her hands.
"He told me—he told me when I went with him to the studio!" Francie declared, passionately. "But he has printed more."
"More? I should think so!" And Mme. de Brécourt sprang up, standing before her. "And you let him—about yourself? You gave him facts? "
"I told him—I told him—I don't know what. It was for his paper—he wants everything. It's a very fine paper."
"A very fine paper?" Mme. de Brecourt stared, with parted lips. "Have you seen, have you touched the hideous sheet? Ah, my brother, my brother!" she wailed again, turning away.
"If your brother were here you wouldn't talk to me this way—he would protect me!" cried Francie, on her feet, seizing her little muff and moving to the door.
"Go away, go away or they'll kill you!" Mme. de Brecourt went on, excitedly. "After all
