“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 naive 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.”

“But I thought you had some relations there,” said Graham.  “Surely I saw an uncle with you who was English?”

“Oh yes, Uncle Charles; but he never went to England either, and he died a long time ago.  I don’t know of any other relations.”

“So you never talk English now, I suppose?  Do you remember telling me to speak English, because I spoke French so funnily?”

“No,” said Madelon, colouring and laughing.  “How is it possible I can have been so rude, Monsieur?  I think you speak it very well.  But I have not forgotten my English, for I have some books, and often we meet English or American gentlemen, so that I still talk it sometimes.”

“And German too,” said Horace, looking at her book.

“Yes, and Italian; I learnt that last winter at Florence.  We meet a great many different people, you know, so I don’t forget.”

“And you are always travelling about?”

“Yes, always; I should not like to live in one place, I think, and papa would not like it either, he says.  Do you remember papa, Monsieur?”

“Very well,” said Graham; and indeed he recalled perfectly the little scene in the salle-a-manger of the Chaudfontaine hotel—­ the long dimly lighted room, the two men playing at cards, and the little child nestling close up to the fair one whom she called papa.  “Yes, I remember him very well,” he added, after a moment’s pause.