“There’s a lady who helps him—Mr. Flack has told me so,” the girl continued. “She’s a literary lady—here in Paris—she writes what he tells her. I think her name’s Miss Topping, but she calls herself Florine—or Dorine,” Francie added.
“Miss Dosson, you’re too rare!” Marguerite de Cliche exclaimed, giving a long moan of pain which ended in an incongruous laugh. “Then you’ve been three to it,” she went on; “that accounts for its perfection!”
Francie disengaged herself again from Mme. de Brecourt and went to Mr. Probert, who stood looking down at the fire with his back to her. “Mr. Probert, I’m very sorry for what I’ve done to distress you; I had no idea you’d all feel so badly. I didn’t mean any harm. I thought you’d 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 didn’t look angry now, he only looked very ill. A strange, inarticulate sound, a chorus of amazement and mirth, came from the others when she said she thought they’d like it; and indeed poor Francie was far from being able to measure the droll effect of that speech. “Like it—LIKE IT?” said Mr. Probert, staring at her as if a little afraid of her.
“What do you mean? She admits—she admits!” Mme. de Cliche exulted 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 poor child, 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,” she said to him.
“‘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 Brecourt had picked up the newspaper; she rolled it together, saying to Francie that she must take it home, take it home immediately—then she’d see. She only seemed to wish to get her out of the room. But Mr. Probert had fixed their flushed little guest 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.