"Don't go—don't leave me!" she said; "I am very wicked,
Monsieur Horace, but—"
And then she dropped down on to a seat in the deep recess formed by the window.
The sight of her unhappiness touched Graham's heart with a sharper pang than anything else had power to do. He loved her so—this poor child—he would have warded off all unhappiness, all trouble from her life; and there she sat miserable before him, and it seemed to him he could not raise a finger to help her.
"You are not happy, Madelon," he said, at length. "Can I do nothing to help you?"
She raised her head and looked at him.
"Nothing, nothing!" she cried. "Ah, forgive me, Monsieur Horace, for speaking so to you; but you do not know, you cannot understand how unhappy I am."
"Buy why, Madelon? What is it? Has any one spoken unkindly to you?"
"No, no, it is not that. You do not understand. Why do you come to me here? Why am I here at all? If people knew who and what I am, would they talk to me as they do? Supposing I had told Lady Adelaide just now—yes, you heard every word of that conversation—she would have despised me, as you pitied me, Monsieur Horace. Yes, you pitied me; I saw it in your eyes."
"My pity is not such as you need resent, Madelon," said
Graham, with a sigh.
"I do not resent it," she answered hastily. "You are kind, you are good; you do well to pity me. What al I? The daughter of a—a—yes, I know well enough now—I did not once, but I do now— and I am here in your society, amongst you all, on sufferance."