“Uncle is such a dreadful bore sometimes,” she sighed at last, dropping into French. “I rather wish we were, after all, going back to Paris.”

“He disagrees with you sometimes, eh?” laughed the man at her side. “All elderly people become bores more or less.”

“Yes. But there is surely no reason for such constant watching.”

“Watching!” exclaimed Waldron in feigned surprise. “Is he annoyed at this constant companionship of ours?”

“Well,” she hesitated; “he’s not exactly pleased. He watches me like a cat watches a mouse. I hate his crafty, stealthy ways. To-day I told him so, frankly.”

Waldron was considerably surprised at her sudden outburst of confidence, for through all the weeks of their close acquaintanceship she had told him but very little concerning herself. But from what she had said he gathered that she was entirely dependent upon her uncle, whose strictness and eccentricities so often irritated her.

“Yes,” she went on, “I’ve really grown tired of being spied upon so constantly. It is most annoying. Gabrielle, too, is always telling tales to him—telling him where I’ve gone, and how long I’ve been away, and all that.”

The man at her side paused.

“In that case,” he said at last, “had we not better keep apart, mademoiselle—if it would render your life happier?”

“I only wish I could get rid of that old beast,” she cried wistfully. “But, unfortunately, I can’t. I’m entirely and utterly in his hands.”

“Why?” asked her companion slowly.

But she remained silent, until he had repeated his question.

“Why? Well, because I am,” was her vague, mysterious reply.

“Then he often complains of me?” Waldron asked.

For answer she laughed a nervous little laugh.

“He doesn’t like me, I suppose. Well, there’s no love lost between us, I assure you, mademoiselle. But if you think it best, then we will exercise a wiser discretion in future.”

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