“And, Monsieur, I do like breloques very much,” continues Madelon, feeling that this is a moment for confession.

“Very well, then, you can look at all these.  See, here is the little fish to begin with.”

“And may I have it in my own hand to look at?” she asked, willing to come to some terms before capitulating.

“Yes, you shall have it to hold in your own hand, if you will come here.”

She came close to him then, unclasping her hands, and holding a tiny palm to receive the little trinket.

Horace was engaged in unfastening it from the rest of the bunch, and whilst doing so he said,

“Will you not tell me your name?  Madelon, is it not?”

“My name is Madeleine, but papa and every one call me Madelon.”

“Madeleine what?”

“Madeleine Linders.”

“Linders!” cried Horace, suddenly enlightened; “what, is M. Linders—­” the famous gambler he had nearly said, but checked himself—­“is that tall gentleman with a beard, whom I saw in the salon just now, your papa?”

“Yes, that is my papa.  Please may I have that now?”

He put the little flexible toy into her hand, and she stood gazing at it for a moment, almost afraid to touch it, and then pushing it gently backwards and forwards with one finger.

“It does move!” she cried delighted.  “I never saw one like it before.”

“Would you like to keep it?” asked Graham.

“Always, do you mean?—­for my very own?”

“Yes, always.”

“Ah, yes!” she cried, “I should like it very much.  I will wear it round my neck with a string, and love it so much, —­better than Sophie.”

She looked at it with great admiration as it glittered in the moonlight; but her next question fairly took Horace aback.

“Is it worth a great deal of money, Monsieur?” she inquired.

“Why, no, not a great deal—­very little, in fact,” he replied.

“Ah! then, I will beg papa to let me keep it always, always, and not to take it away.”

“I daresay he will let you keep it, if you tell him you like it,” said Graham, not clearly understanding her meaning.

“Oh! yes, but then he often gives me pretty things, and then sometimes he says he must take them away again, because they are worth so much money.  I don’t mind, you know, if he wants them; but I will ask him to let me keep this.”

“And what becomes of all your pretty things?”

“I don’t know; I have none now,” she answered, “we left them behind at Spa.  Do you know one reason why I would not dance to-night?” she added, lowering her voice confidentially.

“No; what was it?”

“Because I had not my blue silk frock with lace, that I wear at the balls at Wiesbaden and Spa.  I can dance, you know, papa taught me; but not in this old frock, and I left my other at Spa.”

“And what were your other reasons?” asked Graham, wondering more and more at the small specimen of humanity before him.