“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.”

“You are wrong,” answered Graham quickly, scarcely thinking of what he said.  “In the first place, it can make no difference to any one that knows you who your father was; and then you are here as Mrs. Treherne’s niece——­”

“I am my father’s daughter!” cried Madelon, blazing up, “and I must not own it.  Yes, yes, I understand it all.  As Mrs. Treherne’s niece I may be received; but not as——­ Oh, papa, papa!” her voice suddenly breaking down, “why did you die? why did you leave me all alone?”

Graham stood silent.  He felt so keenly for her; he had so dreaded for her the time when this knowledge of her father’s true character must come home to her.  In his wide sympathy with everything connected with her, he had regrets of that poor father also, dead years ago, who in his last hours had so plainly foreseen some such moment as this, and yet not quite, either.

“Monsieur Horace,” Madelon went on wildly, “I did so love papa, and he loved me—­ah, you cannot imagine how much!  When I think of it now, when I see other fathers with their children, how little they seem to care for them in comparison, I wonder at his love for me.  He nursed me, he played with me, he took such care of me, he made me so happy.  I think sometimes if I could only hear his voice once more, and see him smiling at me as he used to smile—­and I must not speak of him, I must not even mention him.  It is unjust, it is cruel.  I do not want to live with people who will not let me think of my father.”