"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."

"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."

Armand was philosophical. "There will be others ... other gentlemen who come to see their daughters ... other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."

"That would be too much of a coincidence," retorted his wife.

"Indeed no," murmured Armand; "it would be life."

They watched them depart on the coach which would take them to Paris—that incongruous pair; the Englishman with the melancholy expression and the vivacious young girl in her sombre convent clothes.

Madame was openly weeping, and Armand wiped a tear from his eye as he returned to his bottle of wine.

It was not until they were in Paris that Charles changed his identity. Now it was safe, he thought; and he would have to tell her before they reached England.

"I was Charles Adam to the nuns," he said. "But that is not my real name. It is Charles Trevenning."

"Trevenning," she repeated with her French accent. "Is that so then?" How true it was that she spoke first and thought afterwards. "This ... it was a ..." She struggled for the word. "It was a necessary ... ?"

"The position was a little difficult. My friends ... being unable to see to these matters for themselves ..."

"You mean my parents?"

"Yes. And I ... with a child on my hands."

She nodded. "It was an awkwardness," she said. "A great awkwardness," she repeated, delighted with the word. Her eyes were sparkling. She had read forbidden books. There had been a lady staying at the auberge who had spoken to her and, being interested in her, had given her several books. She had smuggled them into the Convent. One grew tired of PilgrirrCs Progress and the Bible. How enthralling were those books! What excitement to read of the outside world, where there was love, death and birth—all of which, it seemed so often, should never have taken place.

She was not as ignorant as people believed of life outside convents. She saw his point. Her parents had died and left him a baby. That was an awkwardness indeed. There would be scandal—and scandal was a frequent ingredient of the forbidden books. She understood perfectly why he had had to be Charles Adam. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the nuns would never have told."

"It seemed wiser," he said. "Will you remember then that I am Charles Trevenning, Sir Charles Trevenning. There is another matter. You must have noticed that you and I attract some attention. That is because people wonder about our relationship. It might be wiser if at this stage of our journey I call you ... my daughter."

She nodded vigorously and with delight. "It is an honour," she said. "It pleases me."

He was relieved to find her so intelligent. He was becoming more and more drawn to her with every passing moment.

"And," he went on, "there is the matter of clothes. While we are in Paris we will try to find something more suitable for you."

She was enchanted by the idea of buying new clothes.

It was necessary to stay some days in the French capital, and he was determined to make her presentable before they left; he wished her *o look like an English schoolgirl, who, having been met by her father after completing her stay at a finishing school, was going home.

He was sure that she attracted attention because of her incongruous clothes, because she talked too much, because she was excited by everything she saw. He believed that she would calm down. But he found that he could not make her into the girl he wished her to be; she was, above all things, herself. He pictured her vaguely in a discreet dress of dark tartan with a little cape about her shoulders; he saw her in a neat bonnet which would help to subdue the brilliance of her eyes.

When they entered the shop he said to the saleswoman in his stiff French: "This is my daughter. I want her to have a discreet outfit."

But he had reckoned without the saleswoman ... and Melisande. The latter had already seen a beautiful gown with frills and flounces, with a low-cut bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She stood before it, her arms folded across her breast.

"But it is too old for Mademoiselle," said the saleswoman tenderly.

"But it is so beautiful," said Melisande.

The saleswoman laughed understanding while Melisande joined in excitedly; and they talked in such rapid French that he could not possibly follow the conversation.

"It is a travelling dress that is wanted," he began.

"Monsieur?"

"A travelling dress ..."

"I want a dress of scarlet!" cried Melisande. "Of scarlet and blue and gold. I want all the brightest colours in the world, because I have lived in a convent and never worn anything but black ... black ... black "

"Black is for when you are a little older," said the saleswoman. "Then with those eyes that will be beautiful. Black ... I see it ... with the bodice cut low and frills and frills of chiffon."

"It is a travelling dress we want," he insisted.

But the saleswoman had taken Melisande away and as he heard the child's excited squeals of laughter and sat on the chair they had provided for him, he thought of Millie Sand at Hampstead and all she had wanted for this girl. Then he could smile at those excited voices. Could Millie see her daughter now? Of course she could. Wasn't it a tenet of his belief that those who passed away could look down on those who were left ? Then she would be looking down and saying: "I knew I could trust him."

He did not notice how the time was passing for he was going over it all again—that long-ago romance of which this girl, who had caused him such acute embarrassment and would cause him more, was the living reminder.

And when at length she came and stood before him he scarcely recognized her.

She was dressed in a travelling dress of black and green; it nipped in her tiny waist; it gave her a slight and charming maturity which had not before been visible. She was wearing a green bonnet of the same silk with which the black dress was trimmed. There were petticoats, she gleefully told him; and there were other undergarments. She lifted her skirts to show, but the saleswoman restrained her.

"Such spirits! It is a pleasure, Monsieur, to dress one with such spirits. And there is a little dress with a wide skirt and a sous jupe crinoline to accompany it ... which would be so useful for the special occasion, you understand?"

As he looked at Melisande he thought of the pride which would have been Millie's if she could see her daughter now. She had been educated as well as girls of the richest families; and now she was charmingly dressed by a Paris House, the most elegant in the world.

He said smiling: "The result is charming. And the little dress ... yes! She must have that also. And perhaps another if that is what she will need."

The saleswoman, was enraptured. Melisande was enraptured.

The clothes should be sent to their hotel.

"You have spent much money," said Melisande.

"You needed the things."

She jumped up and, putting her arms about his neck, kissed him.

The saleswoman laughed. "It is understandable ... Mademoiselle's gratitude to her kind Papa."

"The best of all Papas!" cried Melisande, her eyes gleaming because of the secret they shared. They must act their parts when they were travelling, her eyes reminded him; because if people thought they were not father and daughter there would be a scandal.

When they went into the streets heads turned to watch her. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been better to have left her in her convent clothes.

To travel with Melisande was like going over the familiar ground for the first time. How delighted she was with everything! The smallest things that happened to her became the greatest jokes. To travel on a railway! She had never believed she would enjoy such an adventure. How she delighted in her seat in a first-class carriage! And how sorry she was for those who must travel third! Her moods were changeable. They almost tripped over each other. Now she was delighting in the pleasures of Vauxhall—for he had been unable to resist the impulse to take her there—then she was weeping for the plight of the beggars, the crossing sweepers, the old apple women.

He was partly sorry, partly relieved, when they were on a train again steaming westward.

"It is time now," he told her, "for us to stop our little pretence."

"I am no longer to be your daughter?" she asked.

"I think we should be wise to adopt another relationship."

"Yes?"

"We will say that you have been introduced to me by a friend because you want a post, and as my daughter will be lonely, I have taken the opportunity of providing a companion for her."

"I see that you do not wish them to know how good you have been to the daughter of your friend. You do not like being thanked."

"But I do. I like it very much."

She shook her head and gave him her warm smile. "No. When I thank you for my clothes, for the happiness you have brought me, you do not like it. You try to change the subject."

"You thank me too often. Once is enough. And now you must please do as I say. I think it advisable for people to think that you are the protegee of a friend of mine. You have been brought up in France; you need a post, and I thought it would be an excellent idea for you to come and stay with my daughter as her companion. As I told you, she has just lost her mother. She was to have been married soon, and that, of course, will be postponed for at least a year. Meanwhile you can help with her clothes; you can walk with her, do embroidery with her, play the pianoforte with her and teach her to speak good French."