indiscretions, dabbed at her eyes.
“How c-can you be s-so unkind! I do not think you are at all nice to-day!”
“But I trust I have made myself plain? You realize that the child I have brought you is but a child?—an innocent child?”
“I am sorry for her if she is!” said her ladyship spitefully.
“You need not be sorry. For once I mean no harm.”
“If you mean her no harm how can you think to adopt her?” Fanny tittered angrily. “What do you suppose the world will say?”
“It will be surprised, no doubt, but when it sees that my ward is presented by the Lady Fanny Marling its tongue will cease to wag.”
Fanny stared at him.
“I present her? You’re raving! Why should I?”
“Because, my dear, you have a kindness for me. You will do as I ask. Also, though you are thoughtless, and occasionally exceedingly tiresome, I never found you cruel. ’Twere cruelty to turn my infant away. She is a very lonely, frightened infant, you see.”
Fanny rose, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. She glanced undecidedly at her brother.
“A girl from the back streets of Paris, of low birth——”
“No, my dear. More I cannot say, but she is not born of the canaille. You have but to look at her to see that.”
“Well, a girl of whom I know naught—foisted on me! I declare ’tis monstrous! I could not possibly do it! What would Edward say?”
“I am confident that you could, if you would, cajole the worthy Edward.”
Fanny smiled.
“Yes, I could, but I do not want the girl.”
“She will not tease you, my dear. I wish you to keep her close, to dress her as befits my ward, and to be gentle with her. Is it so much to ask?”
“How do I know that she will not ogle Edward, this innocent maid?”
“She is too much the boy. Of course, if you are uncertain of Edward——”
She tossed her head.
“Indeed, ’tis no such thing! ’Tis merely that I’ve no wish to house a pert, red-headed girl.”
His Grace bent to pick up his fan.
“I crave your pardon, Fanny. I’ll take the child elsewhere.”
Fanny ran to him, penitent all at once.
“Indeed and you shall not! Oh, Justin, I am sorry to be so disobliging!”
“You’ll take her?”
“I—yes, I’ll take her. But I don’t believe all you say of her. I’ll wager my best necklet she’s not so artless as she would have you think.”
“You would lose, my dear.” His Grace moved to the door into the antechamber, and opened it. “Infant, come forth!”
Leonie came, her cloak over her arm. At sight of her boy’s raiment Fanny closed her eyes as though in acute pain.
Avon patted Leonie’s cheek.
“My sister has promised to care for you until I can take you myself,” he said. “Remember, you will do as she bids you.”
Leonie looked shyly across at Fanny, who stood with primly set lips and head held high. The big eyes noted the unyielding pose, and fluttered up to Avon’s face.
“Monseigneur—please do not—leave me!” It was a despairing whisper, and it amazed Fanny.
“I shall come to see you very soon, my babe. You are quite safe with Lady Fanny.”
“I don’t—want you to go away! Monseigneur, you—you do not understand!”
“Infant, I do understand. Have no fear; I shall come back again!” He turned to Fanny, and bowed over her hand. “I have to thank you, my dear. Pray convey my greetings to the excellent Edward. Leonie, how often have I forbidden you to clutch the skirts of my coat?”
“—I am sorry, Monseigneur.”
“You always say that. Be a good child, and strive to bear with your petticoats.” He held out his hand, and Leonie dropped on one knee to kiss it. Something sparkling fell on to those white fingers, but Leonie turned her head away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
“F-Farewell, Mon—monseigneur.”
“Farewell, my infant. Fanny, your devoted servant!” He made a profound leg, and went out, shutting the door behind him.
Left alone with the small but forbidding Lady Fanny, Leonie stood as though rooted to the ground, looking hopelessly towards the shut door, and twisting her hat in her hands.
“Mademoiselle,” said Fanny coldly, “if you will follow me I will show you your apartment. Have the goodness to wrap your cloak about you.”
“Yes, madame.” Leonie’s lip trembled. “I am—very sorry, madame,” she said brokenly. A tiny sob escaped her, valiantly suppressed, and suddenly the icy dignity fell from Fanny. She ran forward, her skirts rustling prodigiously, and put her arms about her visitor.
“Oh, my dear, I am a shrew!” she said. “Never fret, child! Indeed, I am ashamed of myself! There, there!” She led Leonie to the sofa, and made her sit down, petting and soothing until the choked sobs died away.
“You see, madame,” Leonie explained, rubbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I felt so—very lonely. I did not mean to cry, but when—Monseigneur—went away—it was so very dreadful!”
“I wish I understood!” sighed Fanny. “Are you fond of my brother, child?”
“I would die for Monseigneur,” said Leonie simply. “I am here only because he wished it.”
“Oh, my goodness gracious me!” said Fanny. “Here’s a pretty coil! My dear, be warned by me, who knows him! Have naught to do with Avon: he was not called Satanas for no reason.”
“He is not a devil to me. And I do not care.”
Fanny cast up her eyes.
“Everything is upside down!” she complained. Then she jumped up. “Oh, you must come up to my chamber, child. ’Twill be so droll to clothe you! See!” She measured herself against Leonie. “We are very much of a height, my love. Perhaps you are a little taller. Not enough to signify.” She fluttered to where Leonie’s cloak had fallen, caught it up, and wrapped it about her charge. “For fear lest the servants should see and chatter,” she explained. “Now come with me.” She swept out, one arm about Leonie’s waist, and, meeting her butler on the stairs, nodded condescendingly to him. “Parker, I have my brother’s ward come unexpectedly to visit me. Be good enough to bid them prepare the guest-chamber. And send my tirewoman to me.” She turned to whisper in Leonie’s ear. “A most faithful, discreet creature, I give you my word.” She led the girl into her bedroom, and closed the door. “Now we shall see! Oh, ’twill be most entertaining, I dare swear!” She kissed Leonie again, and was wreathed in smiles. “To think I was so dull! ’Pon rep, I owe my darling Justin a debt of gratitude. I shall call you Leonie.”
“Yes, madame.” Leonie recoiled slightly, fearing another embrace.
Fanny tripped to her wardrobe.
“And you must call me Fanny, my dear. Off with those—those dreadful clothes!”
Leonie glanced down at her slim figure.
“But, madame, they are very fine clothes! Monseigneur gave them to me.”
“Indelicate creature! Off with them, I say! they must be burned.”
Leonie sat down plump upon the bed.
“Then I will not take them off.”
Fanny turned, and for a moment they stared at one another. Leonie’s chin was tilted, her dark eyes flashed.
“You are very tiresome,” pouted Fanny. “What can you want with man’s attire?”
“I will not have them burned!”
“Oh, ’tis very well, my dear! Keep them if you will!” said Fanny hastily, and wheeled about as the door
