'Turn you down?'
'Give me up?—Refuse to know me;—because of the foxes?'
'Mais—chère Madame'—Mademoiselle Ludérac faltered, but less now in confusion than uncertainty, 'you do not know me at all.'
'There's your mistake. I do. It doesn't take long to know some people—if one's got eyes in one's head. I know you better than you can possibly imagine,' Jill declared. 'And as a matter of fact, I was your friend before I ever saw you.'
'Mais—chère Madame'—Mademoiselle Ludérac repeated. And now it was indeed with confusion. All her French standards of decorum, rationality, measure, were, it was evident, disordered by the unprecedented situation in which she found herself. 'We have never spoken together before to-day.—I do not even know your name.'
'My name is Jill;—Gillian Graham,' Jill informed her, rising to her feet and standing before her, her eyes narrowed to their happiest smile. 'And yours is Marthe Ludérac. And though I can't promise to give up hunting—if I ever have another chance to hunt—I can promise that I'd do a great deal to please you. There. How's that for an offer of friendship?' And Jill stretched out her hand.
But Mademoiselle Ludérac sat still on the wall, taking her cat to her side. Jill thought it was to free her other hand for a responsive gesture. Then she saw her fold her fingers together—as if really to control a
