’I am not so sure of that, my sweet little bete; your education has been neglected, or rather entirely abandoned, since you ’av arrive at this place, I am told.  You must not be a bestiole.  We must do, you and I, as we are ordered.  Mr. Silas Ruthyn he will tell us.’

All this time Madame was pulling on her stockings, getting her boots on, and otherwise proceeding with her dowdy toilet.  I do not know why I stood there talking to her.  We often act very differently from what we would have done upon reflection.  I had involved myself in a dialogue, as wiser generals than I have entangled themselves in a general action when they meant only an affair of outposts.  I had grown a little angry, and would not betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt that sensation profoundly.

’My beloved father thought you so unfit a companion for me that he dismissed you at an hour’s notice, and I am very sure that my uncle will think as he did; you are not a fit companion for me, and had my uncle known what had passed he would never have admitted you to this house—­never!’

‘Helas! Quelle disgrace!  And you really think so, my dear Maud,’ exclaimed Madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in the corner of which I could see half of her sly, grinning face, as she ogled herself in it.

‘I do, and so do you, Madame,’ I replied, growing more frightened.

’It may be—­we shall see; but everyone is not so cruel as you, ma chere petite calomniatrice.’

‘You shan’t call me those names,’ I said, in an angry tremor.

‘What name, dearest cheaile?’

‘Calomniatrice—­that is an insult.’

’Why, my most foolish little Maud, we may say rogue, and a thousand other little words in play which we do not say seriously.

‘You are not playing—­you never play—­you are angry, and you hate me,’ I exclaimed, vehemently.

’Oh, fie!—­wat shame!  Do you not perceive, dearest cheaile, how much education you still need?  You are proud, little demoiselle; you must become, on the contrary, quaite humble.  Je ferai baiser le babouin a vous—­ha, ha, ha!  I weel make a you to kees the monkey.  You are too proud, my dear cheaile.’

‘I am not such a fool as I was at Knowl,’ I said; ’you shall not terrify me here.  I will tell my uncle the whole truth,’ I said.

‘Well, it may be that is the best,’ she replied, with provoking coolness.

‘You think I don’t mean it?’

‘Of course you do,’ she replied.

‘And we shall see what my uncle thinks of it.’

‘We shall see, my dear,’ she replied, with an air of mock contrition.

‘Adieu, Madame!’

‘You are going to Monsieur Ruthyn?—­very good!’

I made her no answer, but more agitated than I cared to show her, I left the room.  I hurried along the twilight passage, and turned into the long gallery that opened from it at right angles.  I had not gone half-a-dozen steps on my return when I heard a heavy tread and a rustling behind me.