After supper Michel with his young friend sat some time at the table, for the innkeeper had brought forth a bottle of his best Burgundy in honour of the occasion.  When they had eaten their fruit, Madame Voss left the room, and Michel and Adrian were soon alone together.  ‘Say nothing to her till to-morrow,’ said Michel in a low voice.

‘I will not,’ said Adrian.  ’I do not wonder that she should be put out of face if she knows why I have come.’

’Of course she knows.  Give her to-night and to-morrow, and we will see how it is to be.’  At this time Marie was up-stairs with the children, resolute that nothing should induce her to go down till she should be sure that their visitor had gone to his chamber.  There were many things about the house which it was her custom to see in their place before she went to her rest, and nobody should say that she neglected her work because of this dressed-up doll; but she would wait till she was sure of him,—­till she was sure of her uncle also.  In her present frame of mind she could not have spoken to the doll with ordinary courtesy.  What she feared was, that her uncle should seek her up-stairs.

But Michel had some idea that her part in the play was not an easy one, and was minded to spare her for that night.  But she had promised to try, and she must be reminded of her promise.  Hitherto she certainly had not tried.  Hitherto she had been ill-tempered, petulant, and almost rude.  He would not see her himself this evening, but he would send a message to her by his wife.  ’Tell her from me that I shall expect to see smiles on her face to-morrow,’ said Michel Voss.  And as he spoke there certainly were no smiles on his own.

‘I suppose she is flurried,’ said Madame Voss.

’Ah, flurried!  That may do for to-night.  I have been very good to her.  Had she been my own, I could not have been kinder.  I have loved her just as if she were my own.  Of course I look now for the obedience of a child.’

‘She does not mean to be undutiful, Michel.’

’I do not know about meaning.  I like reality, and I will have it too.  I consulted herself, and was more forbearing than most fathers would be.  I talked to her about it, and she promised me that she would do her best to entertain the man.  Now she receives him and me with an old frock and a sulky face.  Who pays for her clothes?  She has everything she wants,—­just as a daughter, and she would not take the trouble to change her dress to grace my friend,—­as you did, as any daughter would!  I am angry with her.’

’Do not be angry with her.  I think I can understand why she did not put on another frock.’

’So can I understand.  I can understand well enough.  I am not a fool.  What is it she wants, I wonder?  What is it she expects?  Does she think some Count from Paris is to come and fetch her?’

‘Nay, Michel, I think she expects nothing of that sort.’