“I like them better with clouds about them.”

“Well,” agreed Miss Naylor nervously, “they certainly are nicer with clouds about them.  They look almost hot and greasy, don’t they....  My dear!” she went on, giving Christian’s arm a dozen little squeezes, “we all of us—­that is, we all of us—­”

Christian turned her eyes away.

“My dear,” Miss Naylor tried again, “I am far—­that is, I mean, to all of us at some time or another—­and then you see—­well—­it is hard!”

Christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm.  Miss Naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her nose.

“Do let us wind your skein of woof!” she said with resounding gaiety.

Some half-hour later Mrs. Decie called Christian to her room.

“My dear!” she said; “come here a minute; I have a message for you.”

Christian went with an odd, set look about her mouth.

Her aunt was sitting, back to the light, tapping a bowl of goldfish with the tip of a polished finger-nail; the room was very cool.  She held a letter out.  “Your uncle is not coming back tonight.”

Christian took the letter.  It was curtly worded, in a thin, toppling hand: 

“Dear con—­Can’t get back to-night.  Sending Dominique for things.  Tell
Christian to come over with him for night if possible.—­Yr. aff. brother,
     NICLS.  Treffry.”

“Dominique has a carriage here,” said Mrs. Decie.  “You will have nice time to catch the train.  Give my love to your uncle.  You must take Barbi with you, I insist on that.”  She rose from her chair and held Christian’s hand:  “My dear!  You look very tired—­very!  Almost ill.  I don’t like to see you look like that.  Come!” She thrust her pale lips forward, and kissed the girl’s paler cheek.

Then as Christian left the room she sank back in her chair, with creases in her forehead, and began languidly to cut a magazine.  ‘Poor Christian!’ she thought, ’how hardly she does take it!  I am sorry for her; but perhaps it’s just as well, as things are turning out.  Psychologically it is interesting!’

Christian found her things packed, and the two servants waiting.  In a few minutes they were driving to the station.  She made Dominique take the seat opposite.

“Well?” she asked him.

Dominique’s eyebrows twitched, he smiled deprecatingly.

“M’mselle, Mr. Treffry told me to hold my tongue.”

“But you can tell me, Dominique; Barbi can’t understand.”

“To you, then, M’mselle,” said Dominique, as one who accepts his fate; “to you, then, who will doubtless forget all that I shall tell you—­my master is not well; he has terrible pain here; he has a cough; he is not well at all; not well at all.”

A feeling of dismay seized on the girl.