“I see them all.” (Pause.) “Did M. de Bassompierre give you those jewels?”

“My uncle knows nothing about them.”

“Were they presents from Mrs. Cholmondeley?”

“Not they, indeed. Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy creature; she never gives me anything now.”

I did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned abruptly away.

“Now, old Crusty, old Diogenes”—these were her familiar terms for me when we disagreed—“what is the matter now?”

“Take yourself away. I have no pleasure in looking at you or your parure.”

For an instant she seemed taken by surprise.

“What now, Mother Wisdom? I have not got into debt for it—that is, not for the jewels, nor the gloves, nor the bouquet. My dress is certainly not paid for, but Uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in the bill. He never notices items, but just looks at the total; and he is so rich, one need not care about a few guineas more or less.”

“Will you go? I want to shut the door. Ginevra, people may tell you you are very handsome in that ballattire; but, in my eyes, you will never look so pretty as you did in the gingham gown and plain straw bonnet you wore when I first saw you.”

“Other people have not your puritanical tastes,” was her angry reply. “And, besides, I see no right you have to sermonize me.”

“Certainly! I have little right; and you, perhaps, have still less to come flourishing and fluttering into my chamber—a mere jay in borrowed plumes. I have not the least respect for your feathers, Miss Fanshawe, and especially the peacock’s eyes you call a parure. Very pretty things, if you had bought them with money which was your own, and which you could well spare, but not at all pretty under present circumstances.”

“On est là pour Mademoiselle Fanshawe!” was announced by the portress, and away she tripped.

This semi-mystery of the parure was not solved till two or three days afterwards, when she came to make a voluntary confession.

“You need not be sulky with me,” she began, “in the idea that I am running somebody, papa or M. de Bassompierre, deeply into debt. I assure you nothing remains unpaid for but the few dresses I have lately had; all the rest is settled.”

“There,” I thought, “lies the mystery—considering that they were not given you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own means are limited to a few shillings, of which I know you to be excessively careful.”

“Ecoutez!” she went on, drawing near, and speaking in her most confidential and coaxing tone, for my “sulkiness” was inconvenient to her. She liked me to be in a talking and listening mood, even if I only talked to chide and listened to rail—“ecoutez, chère grogneuse! I will tell you all how and about it; and you will then see not only how right the whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the first place, I must go out. Papa himself said that he wished me to see something of the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs. Cholmondeley that, though I was a sweet creature enough, I had rather a bread-and-butter- eating, school-girl air, of which it was his special desire that I should get rid by an introduction to society here before I make my regular débût in England. Well, then, if I go out, I must dress. Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and will give nothing more. It would be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for all the things I need; that you can’t deny—that agrees with your own preachments. Well, but somebody