look angry but he looked very ill. A strange inarticulate sound, a kind of exclamation of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they would like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to judge of the droll effect of that speech "Like it—like it?" said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if he were a little afraid of her.
"What do you mean? She admits—she admits!" cried Mme. de Cliché to her sister. "Did you arrange it all that day in the Bois—to punish me for having tried to separate you?" she pursued, to the girl, who stood gazing up piteously at the old man.
"I don't know what he has published—I haven't seen it—I don't understand. I thought it was only to be a piece about me."
"About me!" M. de Cliche repeated in English. "Elle est divine!" He turned away, raising his shoulders and hands and then letting them fall.
Mme. de Brécourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately—then she would see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed the girl with his sick stare. "You gave information for that? You desired it?"
"Why, I didn't desire it, but Mr. Flack did."
"Why do you know such ruffians? Where was your father?" the old man groaned.
