"Melisande," said the Mother, "come here, my child." As Melisande approached the table, the Mother went on: "This is Mr. Charles Adam."

Melisande curtseyed to the stranger.

"Speak to him in English, child," said the Mother. "He would prefer that. Mr. Adam has come to see you. He has something to say to you, and he thinks it would be better if he told it to you himself. I am going to leave you that you may talk with him."

"Yes, ma Merer

"He is your guardian, Melisande. Do not forget ... in English. He will wish to know how proficient you have become in that tongue."

The Mother rose and laid a hand on Melisande's shoulder; she gave her a little push towards Mr. Adam who had risen and was holding out his hand to shake hers.

The door closed on the Mother.

"This is a surprise to you," he said.

"My . . . guardian?" she said.

"Yes . . . yes."

"But you did not say. I mean . . . outside the inn . . . when I dropped my sabot. You did not tell me then. I should have been so excited. I did not know . . ."

She stopped. She was becoming incoherent as Sister Emilie said she was when she was excited, and it was only the fact that it was not so easy to translate her thoughts into English which stopped the flow of words.

"I am sorry," he said. "I could not explain then. It is difficult even now . . ."

"Of course, Monsieur." She looked at him with delight, taking in every detail: the elegant clothes, the hair slightly greying at the temples, the rather cold grey eyes, the stern mouth; she decided he was somewhat formidable, but everything that a guardian ought to be. He was not the sort of man about whom Therese need have the slightest qualm—nor the Mother, 'it seemed. How odd! Here she was alone in a room with a man for the first time in her life. Her lips curled up at the corners.

"So, Monsieur," she said, "you are my guardian."

"I ... I knew your father."

"Oh, please tell me. I have so often wondered. What Was my father like? Where is he now? Why was I left at the Convent? Is he still alive?"

"Your father was a gentleman," he said.

"And my mother?"

"Your mother died very soon after you were born."

"And my father also?"

"You . . . lost him too. He asked me to look after you."

"And it was you who sent me to the Convent?"

"The education which has been given you here is as good as any you could get. ... I was persuaded."

She laughed and, because he looked surprised, she said: "I am only laughing because I am pleased. No one has been really interested in me before."

"I had thought you might make the Convent your permanent home."

Her face fell. She felt as the butterfly would have felt if, after she had shown him the fresh air and freedom, she had brought him back into the schoolroom.

"I am not good enough to be a nun," she said. She was sad suddenly ; her lids hid the brilliance of her eyes and all the joy seemed to have gone out of her face. "I did not feel the ecstasy of prayers and fasting. Little Louise said that when she worked on the angel's wing in the altar cloth she felt as though she had wings and was flying up to heaven. When I worked on the angel's robe, I just felt it was tiresome and hurt my eyes. You see . . ."

But of course he was not interested in little Louise and her feelings, nor in the weaknesses of Melisande.

She noticed that he ignored what she said and went on with his speech as though he were unaware of her interruption. She must keep quiet, for only by letting him do the talking could she know what he wished to say, and curb this aching curiosity within her.

"But," he went on, "it seems you are unsuited to convent life. So I have come to take you away if you wish to leave."

She clasped her hands together. They were trembling with excitement.

"I have one or two propositions to put before you." He looked at her eager animated face. "I am told that you know something of teaching. That means you could earn your living as a governess. I am told that you would be a good needlewoman if you would apply yourself to such work. It is possible that I may find a situation for you."

She was thoughtful. Perhaps, he thought, she saw herself escaping from one prison to another.

He made up his mind suddenly then. He had not until this moment been quite sure whether he could act so daringly. This was one of the most reckless moments of his life. It would be so simple to take her to Fenella. Fenella would have helped him as readily now as she had once before.

But Melisande was so charming—those shapeless ugly garments could not hide that. She was Millie re-born . . . Millie turned into Melisande. Millie had been pretty and appealing, but this girl had real beauty. Millie was uneducated; this girl's intelligence shone through her beauty. That look of alert enquiry in the green eyes might have been inquisitiveness, but it was enchanting. How could he resist the temptation to bring his own daughter into his home, to watch her day by day? How could he allow her to take a menial post in another household ? He seemed to hear Millie's voice saying: "I want her to have a gros de Naples gown and a mantle ..."

She shall! he decided. He would, for once, forget to be cautious; he would override all difficulties.

"I have a situation for you," he said slowly.

"Oh . . . yes?"

He went on quickly: "My wife died recently. I have a daughter a few years older than you are. She needs a companion. Would you like to live in my house and help to cheer my daughter ? The work would not be arduous. I should like you to be happy in my house. You would have all the comforts . .. the privileges ... of my daughter herself."

Her eyes were shining, for he had changed. She had thought for a moment that he was going to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her.

"Yes please," she said. "Please."

"When will you be ready to leave?"

"Why, now!" she cried.

"I think in a few days' time would be more convenient. You will need time to prepare."

She was smiling, and she spoke as usual without considering. "I believe," she said, "that you were very fond of my father."

He turned away from her sharply; then suddenly he turned his head and said over his shoulder: "What makes you think so?"

"To have cared so much about me . . . whom you didn't know . . . to be so pleased because I am coming to live in your house."

When he turned back to her his face was without expression. "Let us hope," he said, "that everyone will be pleased."

It was impossible to keep the secret. The auberge hummed with it.

"What did I tell you ?" cried Armand, delighted. "Now, Madame, you see that I am a man who can put two and two together."

But Madame was sad. "He will never come to see us again. And we shall lose Melisande too."

"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."

"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."

Armand was philosophical. "There will be others . . . other gentlemen who come to see their daughters . . . other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."