He paused for an instant, breathless, before Juliette, who stood,
with a little smile of composed surprise parting her lips. This
child, fresh from the quiet of a convent-school, was in no wise
taken aback nor at a loss how to act. She did not speak, but stood
with head erect, not ungracious, looking at him with clear brown
eyes, awaiting his explanation. And Loo Barebone, all untaught, who
had never spoken to a French lady in his life, came forward with an
assurance and a readiness which must have lain dormant in his blood,
awaiting the magic of this moment.

"Since my name would convey nothing to Mademoiselle," he said, with
a bow which he had assuredly not learnt in Farlingford, "it was
useless to mention it. But it is at the disposal of Mademoiselle,
nevertheless. It is an English name--Barebone. I am the Englishman
who has been fortunate enough to engage the interest of your father,
who journeyed to England to find me--and found me."

He broke off with a laugh, spreading out his arms to show himself,
as it were, and ask indulgence.

"I have a heritage, it appears, in France," he went on, "but know
nothing of it, yet. For the weather has been bad and our voyage a
stormy one. I was to have been told during the journey, but we had
no time for that. And I know no more than you, mademoiselle."

Juliette had changed colour, and her cheeks, which were usually of a
most delicate pink, were suddenly quite white. She did not touch
upon the knowledge to which he referred, but went past it to its
object.