that had held me silent and curious, the same unnatural assurance, and
cold disregard of her surroundings; but her eyes had grown watchful and
unfriendly.

"I would say that you had turned him against us, and if you had--"

"Mademoiselle is overwrought," I said.

She tapped her foot on the floor impatiently, and compressed her lips.

"I am never overwrought," said Mademoiselle. "It is a luxury my family
has not been allowed for many years. I say your father was an honest man,
as men go, and a brave one too, and that you have changed him, and I warn
you to leave him alone in the future. You do not know him, or how to deal
with him. I tell you his trifling about the paper is a passing phase, and
that you must not disturb him. No, no, do not protest. I know well enough
you are not to blame. You must leave him to me. That is all."

"It pains me not to do as Mademoiselle suggests," I said.

"You mean you will not?" she flashed back at me angrily.

"I mean I will not," I answered with sudden heat, "No," I added more
harshly, as she attempted to interrupt, "Now you will listen to me. You
say I am a fool. You say I can do nothing against him. Perhaps not,
Mademoiselle, but what I see is this: I see you in a dangerous situation
through no fault of your own, and whether you wish it or not, I am going
to get you out of it. He has done enough, Mademoiselle, and this is going
to be the end. By heaven, if he looks at you again--"