"Was that you?" cried Madelon, her face suddenly brightening with a flush of intelligence and pleasure. "I have it still, that little fish. Ah! how glad I am now that I did not give it away! That gentleman was so kind to me, I shall never forget him. But it was you!" she added, with a sudden recognition of Graham's identity.
"It was indeed," he said laughing. "So you have thought of me sometimes since then? But I am afraid you would not have remembered me if I had not told you who I was."
"I was such a little girl then," said Madelon colouring. "Five years ago—why I was not six years old; but I remember you very well now," she added, smiling up at him. "I have often thought of you, Monsieur, and I am so glad to see you again."
She said it with a little naïve air of frankness and sincerity which was very engaging, giving him her hand as she spoke.
"I am glad you have not quite forgotten me," said Graham, sitting down by her on the window seat; "but indeed you have grown so much, I am not sure I should have recollected you, if I had not seen your name here. What have you been doing ever since? Have you ever been to Chaudfontaine again?"
"Oh, very often," said Madelon. "We go there almost every year
for a little while—not this year though, for we were at
Wiesbaden till three weeks ago, and then papa had to come to
Paris at once."
"And do you still go about everywhere with your papa, or do you go to school sometimes?"
"To school? oh no, never," said Madelon, not without some wonder at the idea. "Papa would not send me to school. I should not like it at all, and neither would he. I know he would not get on at all well without me, and I love travelling about with him. Last winter we were in Italy."
"And you never come to England?"
"No, never. I asked papa once if he would not go there, and he said no, that we should not like it at all, it was so cold and triste there, one never amused one's-self."