strokes of a vulgarity that a man doesn't sink to (he can't, his very organisation prevents him) even if he be the greatest cad on earth. But please don't doubt that I have maintained that that woman is not you."
"The way you talk—I don't know how to write," said Francie.
"My poor child, when one knows you as I do! " murmured Mme. de Brécourt, with her arm around her.
"There's a lady who helps him—Mr. Flack has told me so," Francie continued. "She's a literary lady—here in Paris—she writes what he tells her. I think her name is Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine—or Dorine," Francie added.
"Miss Dosson, you're too rare!" Marguerite de Cliché exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. "Then you have been three to it," she went on; "that accounts for its perfection!"
Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brécourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire, with his back to her. "Mr. Probert, I'm very sorry at what I've done to distress you; I had no idea you would all feel so badly. I didn't mean any harm. I thought you would like it."
The old man turned a little, bending his eyes on her, but without taking her hand as she had hoped. Usually when they met he kissed her. He did not
