child who has been told that she is naughty, but declines to accept the statement. I was puzzled at the stern morality exhibited by my friend Gustave. His next remark threw some light on his feelings.
“Heavens! if it became known, what would be thought?” he demanded suddenly.
“If one thinks of what is thought,” said the duchess with a shrug, “one is——”
“A fool,” said I, “or—a lover!”
“Ah!” cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. “If it is that, I’ll forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to lose?”
“I write,” said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, “to say that I am going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!”
“Oh, you write?” we murmured.
“My sister writes to say she is not there!”
“Oh, she writes?” we murmured again.
“And it is thought——”
“By whom?” asked the duchess.
“By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon,” said I.
“That it is a trick—a device—a deceit!” continued poor Gustave.
“It was decidedly indiscreet of you to come,” said the duchess reprovingly. “How was I to know about Lady Cynthia? If I had known about Lady Cynthia, I would not have asked you; I would have asked Mr. Aycon only. Or perhaps you also, Mr. Aycon——”
“Madame,” said I, “I am alone in the world.”
“Where has Claire gone to?” asked Gustave.
“Paris,” pouted the duchess.
