“Yet you bolted from a good home, where you had every comfort, rather than be pestered to marry him?”

“Oh, what do you call a ‘good home,’ and ‘every comfort’?  I had enough to eat and drink, a sunny room, decent clothes, and wasn’t allowed to work except for Cousin Catherine.  But that isn’t my idea of goodness and comfort.”

“Nor mine either.”

“Yet you seem surprised at me.”

“I was thinking that, little and fragile as you look—­like a delicate piece of Dresden china—­you’re a brave girl.”

“Oh, thank you!” I cried.  “I do love to be called ‘brave’ better than anything, because I’m really such a coward.  You don’t think I’ve done wrong?”

“No-o.  So far as you’ve told me.”

“What, don’t you believe I’ve told you the truth?” I flashed out.

“Of course.  But do women ever tell the whole truth to men—­even to their brothers?  What about that kind friend of yours in England?”

“What kind friend?” I asked, confused for an instant.  Then I remembered, and—­almost—­chuckled.  The conversation I had had with him came back to me, and I recalled a queer look on his face which had puzzled me till I forgot it.  Now I was on the point of blurting out:  “Oh, the kind friend is a Miss Paget, who said she’d like to help me if I needed help,” when a spirit of mischief seized me.  I determined to keep up the little mystery I’d inadvertently made.  “I know,” I said gravely. “Quite a different kind of friend.”

“Some one you like better than Monsieur Charretier?”

“Much better.”

“Rich, too?”

“Very rich, I believe, and of a noble family.”

“Indeed!  No doubt, then, you are wise, even from a worldly point of view, in refusing the man your people want you to marry, and taking—­such extreme measures not to let yourself be over persuaded,” said Mr. Dane, stiffly, in a changed tone, not at all friendly or nice, as before.  “I meant to advise you not to go on to England with Lady Turnour, as the whole situation is so unsuitable; but now, of course, I shall say no more.”

“It was about something else I wanted advice,” I reminded him.  “But I suppose I must have bored you.  You suddenly seem so cross.”

“I am not in the least cross,” he returned, ferociously.  “Why should I be?—­even if I had a right, which I haven’t.”

“Not the right of a brother?”

“Hang the rights of a brother!” exclaimed Mr. Dane.

“Then don’t you want to be my brother any more?”

He walked away from me a few steps, down the corridor, then turned abruptly and came back.  “It isn’t a question of what I want,” said he, “but of what I can have.  Sometimes I think that after all you’re nothing but an outrageous little flirt.”

“Sometimes?  Why, you’ve only known me two days.  As if you could judge!”

“Far be it from me to judge.  But it seems as though the two days were two years.”