“What else can we do for somebody?” asked Hugh.

“There’s Jane,” suggested Rosemary.  “I told her this morning how I went out and found a father, and she said Pooh, he was all in my eye; and besides she’d never heard of fathers growing on blackberry bushes.  But if we bought her a present, and you gave it to her yourself, she’d have to believe in you.”

“I shan’t feel I have a sure hold on existence until she does,” said Hugh.  “Let’s buy her something without the loss of a moment.”

So they bought Jane a ring, which Rosemary chose herself after mature deliberation, and with due regard to the recipient’s somewhat pronounced taste in colours.

“She admires red and green together more than anything,” said the child, “and I want her to have what she really likes, because if it hadn’t been for her I shouldn’t have known Christmas Eve was the time to search for fathers.  Just supposing somebody else had gone out and snapped him up instead of me!”

As a matter of fact somebody else had gone out, and had come very near indeed to snapping him up; but there are things which do not bear thinking of.  It was Hugh’s firm conviction that Destiny and not Jane, had flung Rosemary in front of his motor; but Destiny could not be rewarded and Jane could.

Rosemary would be satisfied with nothing less than a formal presentation; and that the ceremony might be gone through without delay, the car was directed towards the Condamine.  As they neared the street of the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, a cab came jingling round the corner.

It was occupied by two ladies who sat half buried in travelling bags, rugs, baskets, and shawl straps, such as women who are not of the Anglo Saxon races love.  A tiny motorphobe in the shape of a black Pomeranian yapped viciously at the automobile as the vehicles passed each other; and though the ladies—­one stout, the other slim—­were thickly veiled, Rosemary cried out, “Oh, it’s the Comtesse and Mademoiselle.  They must be going away.”

Hugh said nothing, but his silence was eloquent to Evelyn, who knew now the whole story of the girl with the soft eyes.  Both were pleased that this was the last of her; but neither quite knew Mademoiselle de Lavalette.  She had been busy with other matters besides her packing, while la bella Madonna and her suite were collecting adorers on the heights of Eze.

Evelyn and Rosemary disappeared to take off their hats before the grand presentation ceremony should begin, and Hugh had begun to occupy the time of their absence by lighting the fire with pine cones, when a cry from the beloved voice called him to the room adjoining.

The door was open, and the woman and the child stood dumbfounded and overwhelmed in a scene of incredible desolation.

The air was acrid with the smell of burning.  Blouses, pink and green, and cream, and blue, were stirred into a seething mass in the fireplace, as in a witch’s cauldron, their fluffy laces burnt and blackened.  Chiffon fichus torn in ribbons strewed the carpet.  An ivory fan had been trampled into fragments on the hearth-rug, and a snow-storm of feathers from a white boa had drifted over the furniture.  On the wash-stand a spangled white tulle hat lay drowning in a basin half full of water.