Lady Fanny Marling, reposing on a settee, found life monotonous. She pushed away the book of poems, over which she had been yawning, and started to play with one golden curl that had strayed over her shoulder and lay glistening on the lace of her wrapper. She was en déshabillé, her fair hair unpowdered, and loosely dressed beneath a Mechlin cap whose blue ribbons were tied under her chin in a coquettish bow. She wore a blue taffeta gown, with a broad fichu about her perfect shoulders and as the room in which she sat was furnished in gold and blue and white she had reason to be pleased with herself and her setting. She was pleased, but she would have liked it better had there been someone with her to share the aesthetic pleasure. So when she heard the clang of her front-door bell her china-blue eyes brightened, and she stretched out her hand for her mirror.

In a few minutes her black page tapped upon the door. She put the mirror down, and turned her head to look at him.

Pompey grinned and bobbed his woolly head.

“Genelman to see ma’am!”

“His name?” she asked.

A soft voice spoke from behind the page.

“His name, my dear Fanny, is Avon. I am fortunate to find you at home.”

Fanny shrieked, clapped her hands, and flew up to greet him.

“Justin! You! Oh, how prodigiously delightful!” She would not permit him to kiss her fingertips, but flung her arms about his neck, and embraced him. “I declare, ’tis an age since I have seen you! The cook you sent is a marvel! Edward will be so pleased to see you! Such dishes! And a sauce at my last party which I positively cannot describe!”

The Duke disengaged himself, shaking out his ruffles.

“Edward and the cook would appear to have become entangled,” he remarked. “I trust I find you well, Fanny?”

“Yes, oh yes! And you? Justin, you cannot imagine how glad I am that you have come back! I vow I have missed you quite too dreadfully! Why what is this?” Her eyes had alighted on Léonie, wrapped in a long cloak, her tricorne in one hand, a fold of the Duke’s coat in the other.

His Grace loosened the tight hold on his garment, and allowed Léonie to clutch his hand.

“This, my dear, was, until yesterday, my page. It is now my ward.”

Fanny gasped, and fell back a pace.

“Your⁠—your ward! This boy? Justin, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No, my dear, I have not. I solicit your kindness for Mademoiselle Léonie de Bonnard.”

Fanny’s cheeks grew crimson. She drew her small figure up, and her eyes became haughtily indignant.

“Indeed, sir? May I ask why you bring your⁠—your ward here?”

Léonie shrank a little, but spoke never a word. Very silky became Avon’s voice.

“I bring her to you, Fanny, because she is my ward, and because I have no duenna for her. She will be glad of you, I think.”

Fanny’s delicate nostrils quivered.

“You think so? Justin, how dare you! How dare you bring her here!” She stamped her foot at him. “You have spoiled everything now! I hate you!”

“You will perhaps accord me a few minutes’ private conversation?” said his Grace. “My infant, you will await me in this room.” He went to one end of the room and opened a door, disclosing an antechamber. “Come, child.”

Léonie looked up at him suspiciously.

“You’ll not go?”

“I will not.”

“Promise! Please, you must promise!”

“This passion for oaths and promises!” sighed Avon. “I promise, my infant.”

Léonie released his hand then, and went into the adjoining room. Avon shut the door behind her, and turned to face his wrathful sister. From his pocket he drew his fan, and spread it open.

“You are really very foolish, my dear,” he said, and came to the fire.

“I am at least respectable! I think it very unkind and insulting of you to bring your⁠—your⁠—”

“Yes, Fanny? My⁠—?”

“Oh, your ward! It’s not decent! Edward will be very, very angry, and I hate you!”

“Now that you have unburdened yourself of that sentiment no doubt you will allow me to explain.” His Grace’s eyes were nearly shut, and his thin lips sneered.

“I do not want an explanation! I want you to take that creature away!”

“When I have told my story, and if you still wish it, I will take her away. Sit down, Fanny. The expression of outraged virtue is entirely wasted on me.”

She flounced into a chair.

“I think you are very unkind! If Edward comes in he will be furious.”

“Then let us hope that he will not come in. Your profile is enchanting, my dear, but I would sooner see both your eyes.”

“Oh, Justin!” She clasped her hands, anger forgotten. “You think it enchanting still? I vow, I thought I looked a positive fright when I looked in the mirror this morning! ’Tis age, I suppose. Oh, I am forgetting to be angry with you! Indeed, I am so thankful to see you again I cannot be cross! But you must explain, Justin.”

“I will start mine explanation, Fanny, with an announcement. I am not in love with Léonie. If you will believe that it will make matters more simple.” He tossed the fan on the couch, and drew out his snuffbox.

“But⁠—but if you are not in love with her, why⁠—what⁠—Justin, I don’t understand! You are most provoking!”

“Pray accept my most humble apologies. I have a reason for adopting the child.”

“Is she French? Where did she learn to speak English? I wish you would explain!”

“I am endeavouring to do so, my dear. Allow me to say that you give me very little opportunity.”

She pouted.

“Now you are cross. Well, start, Justin! The child is pretty enough, I grant you.”

“Thank you. I found her in Paris one evening, clad as a boy, and fleeing from her unpleasant⁠—er⁠—brother. It transpired that this brother and his inestimable wife had made the child masquerade as a boy ever since her twelfth year. She was thus of more use to them. They kept a low tavern, you see.”

Fanny cast up her eyes.

“A tavern-wench!” She shuddered, and raised her scented handkerchief to her nose.

“Precisely. In a fit of⁠—let us say⁠—quixotic madness, I bought Léonie, or Léon, as she called herself, and took her home with me. She became my page. I assure you she created no little interest in polite circles. It pleased me to keep her a boy for a time. She imagined that I was in ignorance of her sex. I became a hero to her. Yes, is it not amusing?”

“It is horrid! Of course the girl hopes to intrigue you. La, Justin, how can you be such a fool?”

“My dear Fanny, when you know Léonie a little better you will not accuse her of having designs upon me. She is in very truth the infant I call her. A gay, impertinent, and trusting infant. I have a notion that she regards me in the light of a grandparent. To resume: as soon as we arrived at Dover I told her that I knew her secret. It may surprise you to hear, Fanny, that the task was damnably hard.”

“It does,” said Fanny frankly.

“I was sure it would. However, I did it. She neither shrank from me nor tried to coquette. You can have no idea how refreshing I found it.”

“Oh, I make no doubt you found it so!” retorted Fanny.

“I am glad that we understand one another so well,” bowed his Grace. “For reasons of mine own I am adopting Léonie, and because I will have no breath of scandal concerning her I bring her to you.”

“You overwhelm me, Justin.”

“Oh, I trust not! I believe you told me some months ago that our cousin by marriage, the unspeakable Field, had died?”

“What has that to do with it?”

“It follows, my dear, that our respected cousin, his wife, whose name I forget, is free. I have a mind to make her Léonie’s chaperon.”

“Lud!”

“And as soon as may be I will send her and Léonie down to Avon. The infant must learn to be a girl again. Poor infant!”

“That is all very well, Justin, but you cannot expect me to house the girl! I vow ’tis preposterous! Think of Edward!”

“Pray hold me excused. I never think of Edward unless I can help it.”

“Justin, if you are minded to be disagreeable⁠—”

“Not at all, my dear.” The smile faded from his lips. Fanny saw that his eyes were unwontedly stern. “We will be serious for once, Fanny. Your conviction that I had brought my mistress to your house⁠—”

“Justin!”

“I am sure you will forgive my plain speaking. That conviction, I say, was pure folly. It has never been my custom to compromise others in my numerous affairs, and you should know that I am sufficiently strict where you are concerned.” There was peculiar meaning in his voice, and Fanny, who had once been famed for her indiscretions, dabbed at her eyes.

“How c-can you be s-so unkind! I do not think you are at all nice today!”

“But I trust I have made myself plain? You realise that the child I have brought you is but a child?⁠—an innocent child?”

“I am sorry for her if she is!” said her ladyship spitefully.

“You need not be sorry. For once I mean no harm.”

“If you mean her no harm how can you think to adopt her?” Fanny tittered angrily. “What do you suppose the world will say?”

“It will be surprised, no doubt, but when it sees that my ward is presented by the Lady Fanny Marling its tongue will cease to wag.”

Fanny stared at him.

“I present her? You’re raving! Why should I?”

“Because, my dear, you have a kindness for me. You will do as I ask. Also, though you are thoughtless, and occasionally exceedingly tiresome, I never found you cruel. ’Twere cruelty to turn my infant away. She is a very lonely, frightened infant, you see.”

Fanny rose, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. She glanced undecidedly at her brother.

“A girl from the back streets of Paris, of low birth⁠—”

“No, my dear. More I cannot say, but she is not born of the canaille. You have but to look at her to see that.”

“Well, a girl of whom I know naught⁠—foisted on me! I declare ’tis monstrous! I could not possibly do it! What would Edward say?”

“I am confident that you could, if you would, cajole the worthy Edward.”

Fanny smiled.

“Yes, I could, but I do not want the girl.”

“She will not tease you, my dear. I wish you to keep her close, to dress her as befits my ward, and to be gentle with her. Is it so much to ask?”

“How do I know that she will not ogle Edward, this innocent maid?”

“She is too much the boy. Of course, if you are uncertain of Edward⁠—”

She tossed her head.

“Indeed, ’tis no such thing! ’Tis merely that I’ve no wish to house a pert, redheaded girl.”

His Grace bent to pick up his fan.

“I crave your pardon, Fanny. I’ll take the child elsewhere.”

Fanny ran to him, penitent all at once.

“Indeed and you shall not! Oh, Justin, I am sorry to be so disobliging!”

“You’ll take her?”

“I⁠—yes, I’ll take her. But I don’t believe all you say of her. I’ll wager my best necklet she’s not so artless as she would have you think.”

“You would lose, my dear.” His Grace moved to the door into the antechamber, and opened it. “Infant, come forth!”

Léonie came, her cloak over her arm. At sight of her boy’s raiment Fanny closed her eyes as though in acute pain.

Avon patted Léonie’s cheek.

“My sister has promised to care for you until I can take you myself,” he said. “Remember, you will do as she bids you.”

Léonie looked shyly across at Fanny, who stood with primly set lips and head held high. The big eyes noted the unyielding pose, and fluttered up to Avon’s face.

“Monseigneur⁠—please do not⁠—leave me!” It was a despairing whisper, and it amazed Fanny.

“I shall come to see you very soon, my babe. You are quite safe with Lady Fanny.”

“I don’t⁠—want you to go away! Monseigneur, you⁠—you do not understand!”

“Infant, I do understand. Have no fear; I shall come back again!” He turned to Fanny, and bowed over her hand. “I have to thank you, my dear. Pray convey my greetings to the excellent Edward. Léonie, how often have I forbidden you to clutch the skirts of my coat?”

“I⁠—I am sorry, Monseigneur.”

“You always say that. Be a good child, and strive to bear with your petticoats.” He held out his hand, and Léonie dropped on one knee to kiss it. Something sparkling fell on to those white fingers, but Léonie turned her head away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

“F-Farewell, Mon-monseigneur.”

“Farewell, my infant. Fanny, your devoted servant!” He made a profound leg, and went out, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone with the small but forbidding Lady Fanny, Léonie stood as though rooted to the ground, looking hopelessly towards the shut door, and twisting her hat in her hands.

“Mademoiselle,” said Fanny coldly, “if you will follow me I will show you your apartment. Have the goodness to wrap your cloak about you.”

“Yes, madame.” Léonie’s lip trembled. “I am⁠—very sorry, madame,” she said brokenly. A tiny sob escaped her, valiantly suppressed, and suddenly the icy dignity fell from Fanny. She ran forward, her skirts rustling prodigiously, and put her arms about her visitor.

“Oh, my dear, I am a shrew!” she said. “Never fret, child! Indeed, I am ashamed of myself! There, there!” She led Léonie to the sofa, and made her sit down, petting and soothing until the choked sobs died away.

“You see, madame,” Léonie explained, rubbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I felt so⁠—very lonely. I did not mean to cry, but when⁠—Monseigneur⁠—went away⁠—it was so very dreadful!”

“I wish I understood!” sighed Fanny. “Are you fond of my brother, child?”

“I would die for Monseigneur,” said Léonie simply. “I am here only because he wished it.”

“Oh, my goodness gracious me!” said Fanny. “Here’s a pretty coil! My dear, be warned by me, who knows him! Have naught to do with Avon: he was not called Satanas for no reason.”

“He is not a devil to me. And I do not care.”

Fanny cast up her eyes.

“Everything is upside down!” she complained. Then she jumped up. “Oh, you must come up to my chamber, child. ’Twill be so droll to clothe you! See!” She measured herself against Léonie. “We are very much of a height, my love. Perhaps you are a little taller. Not enough to signify.” She fluttered to where Léonie’s cloak had fallen, caught it up, and wrapped it about her charge. “For fear lest the servants should see and chatter,” she explained. “Now come with me.” She swept out, one arm about Léonie’s waist, and, meeting her butler on the stairs, nodded condescendingly to him. “Parker, I have my brother’s ward come unexpectedly to visit me. Be good enough to bid them prepare the guest-chamber. And send my tirewoman to me.” She turned to whisper in Léonie’s ear. “A most faithful, discreet creature, I give you my word.” She led the girl into her bedroom, and closed the door. “Now we shall see! Oh, ’twill be most entertaining, I dare swear!” She kissed Léonie again, and was wreathed in smiles. “To think I was so dull! ’Pon rep, I owe my darling Justin a debt of gratitude. I shall call you Léonie.”

“Yes, madame.” Léonie recoiled slightly, fearing another embrace.

Fanny tripped to her wardrobe.

“And you must call me Fanny, my dear. Off with those⁠—those dreadful clothes!”

Léonie glanced down her slim figure.

“But, madame, they are very fine clothes! Monseigneur gave them to me.”

“Indelicate creature! Off with them, I say! They must be burned.”

Léonie sat down plump upon the bed.

“Then I will not take them off.”

Fanny turned, and for a moment they stared at one another. Léonie’s chin was tilted, her dark eyes flashed.

“You are very tiresome,” pouted Fanny. “What can you want with man’s attire?”

“I will not have them burned!”

“Oh, ’tis very well, my dear! Keep them if you will!” said Fanny hastily, and wheeled about as the door opened. “Here is Rachel! Rachel, this is Mademoiselle de Bonnard, my brother’s ward. She⁠—she wants some clothes.”

The tirewoman gazed at Léonie in horrified wonder.

“So I should think, my lady,” she said austerely.

Lady Fanny stamped her foot.

“Wicked, insolent woman! Don’t dare to sniff! And if you say a word below-stairs, Rachel⁠—”

“I would not so demean myself, your ladyship.”

“Mademoiselle⁠—has come from France. She⁠—she was compelled to wear those garments. It does not matter why. But⁠—but now she wants to change them.”

“No, I do not,” said Léonie truthfully.

“Yes, yes, you do! Léonie, if you are disagreeable, I shall lose my temper!”

Léonie looked at her in some surprise.

“But I am not disagreeable. I only said⁠—”

“I know, I know! Rachel, if you look like that, I vow I will box your ears!”

Léonie crossed one leg under her.

“I think I will tell Rachel everything,” she said.

“My dear! Oh, as you please!” Fanny flounced to a chair, and sat down.

“You see,” said Léonie gravely, “I have been a boy for seven years.”

“Lawks, miss!” breathed Rachel.

“What is that?” inquired Léonie, interested.

“It is nothing!” said Fanny sharply. “Go on, child.”

“I have been a page, Rachel, but now Monseign⁠—I mean, the Duc of Avon⁠—wants to make me his⁠—his ward, so I have to learn to be a girl. I do not want to, you understand, but I must. So please will you help me?”

“Yes, miss. Of course I will!” said Rachel, whereupon her mistress flew up out of her chair.

“Admirable creature! Rachel, find linen! Léonie, I implore you, take off those breeches!”

“Don’t you like them?” inquired Léonie.

“Like them!” Fanny waved agitated hands. “They are monstrous improper! Take them off!”

“But they are of an excellent cut, madame.” Léonie proceeded to wriggle out of her coat.

“You must not⁠—you positively must not speak of such things!” said Fanny earnestly. “ ’Tis most unseemly.”

“But madame, one cannot help seeing them. If men did not wear them⁠—”

“Oh!” Fanny broke into scandalised laughter. “Not another word!”

For the next hour Léonie was bundled in and out of garments, while Fanny and Rachel twisted and turned her, laced and unlaced her, and pushed her this way and that. To all their ministrations she submitted patiently, but she displayed no interest in the proceedings.

“Rachel, my green silk!” commanded her ladyship, and held out a flowered petticoat to Léonie.

“The green, my lady?”

“The green silk that became me not, stupid girl! Quickly! ’Twill be ravishing with your red hair, my love!” She seized a brush, and proceeded to arrange the tumbled curls. “How could you cut it? ’Tis impossible to dress your hair now. No matter. You shall wear a green ribbon threaded through, and⁠—oh, hasten, Rachel!”

Léonie was put into the green silk. It was cut low across the chest, to her evident confusion, and spread over a great hoop below the waist.

“Oh, said I not that ’twould be ravishing?” cried Fanny, stepping back to look at her handiwork. “I cannot bear it! Thank goodness Justin is to take you into the country! You are far, far too lovely! Look in the mirror, ridiculous child!”

Léonie turned to see herself in the long glass behind her. She seemed taller, all at once, and infinitely more beautiful, with her curls clustering about her little pointed face, and her big eyes grave and awed. Her skin showed very white against the apple-green silk. She regarded herself in wonder, and between her brows was a troubled crease. Fanny saw it.

“What! Not satisfied?”

“It is very splendid, madame, and⁠—and I look nice, I think, but⁠—” she cast a longing glance to where her discarded raiment lay. “I want my breeches!”

Fanny flung up her hands.

“Another word about those breeches, and I burn them! You make me shudder, child!”

Léonie looked at her solemnly.

“I do not at all understand why you do not like⁠—”

“Provoking creature! I insist on your silence! Rachel, take those⁠—those garments away this instant! I declare I will not have them in my room.”

“They shall not be burned!” said Léonie challengingly.

Fanny encountered the fierce glance and gave vent to a little titter.

“Oh, as you will, my love! Put them in a box, Rachel, and convey them to Mistress Léonie’s apartment. Léonie, I will have you look at yourself! Tell me, is it not a modish creation?” She went to the girl and twitched the heavy folds of silk into position.

Léonie regarded her reflection again.

“I think I have grown,” she said. “What will happen if I move, madame?”

“Why, what should happen?” asked Fanny, staring.

Léonie shook her head dubiously.

“I think something will burst, madame. Me perhaps.”

Fanny laughed.

“What nonsense! Why, ’tis laced so loosely that it might almost fall off you! Nay, never pick your skirts up so! Oh, heaven, child, you must not show your legs! ’Tis positively indecent!”

“Bah!” said Léonie, and gathering up her skirts, walked carefully across the room. “Certainly I shall burst,” she sighed. “I shall tell Monseigneur that I cannot wear women’s clothes. It is as though I were in a cage.”

“Don’t say you’ll⁠—burst⁠—again!” implored Fanny. “ ’Tis a most unladylike expression.”

Léonie paused in her perambulations to and fro.

“Am I a lady?” she inquired.

“Of course you are! What else?”

The roguish dimple peeped out for the first time, and the blue eyes danced.

“Well, what now? Is it so funny?” asked Fanny, a trifle peevishly.

Léonie nodded.

“But yes, madame. And⁠—and very perplexing.” She came back to the mirror, and bowed to her own reflection. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle de Bonnard! Peste, qu’elle est ridicule!”

“Who?” demanded Fanny.

Léonie pointed a scornful finger at herself.

“That silly creature.”

“ ’Tis yourself.”

“No!” said Léonie with conviction. “Never!”

“You are most provoking!” cried Fanny. “I have been at pains to dress you in my prettiest gown⁠—yes, the very prettiest, though to be sure it became me not⁠—and you say ’tis silly!”

“But no, madame. It is I who am silly. Could I not keep my breeches just for tonight?”

Fanny clapped her hands to her ears.

“I positively will not listen. Don’t dare to mention that word to Edward, I implore you!”

“Edward? Bah, what a name! Who is it?”

“My husband. A dear creature, I give you my word, but I faint to think of what he would feel an you spoke of breeches in his hearing!” Fanny gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Oh, how entertaining ’twill be to buy clothes for you! I quite love Justin for bringing you to me! And whatever will Rupert say?”

Léonie withdrew her gaze from the mirror.

“That is Monseigneur’s brother, ne’est-ce pas?”

“The most provoking creature,” nodded Fanny. “Quite mad, you know. But then we Alastairs are all of us that. No doubt you have observed it?”

The big eyes twinkled.

“No, madame.”

“What! And you have⁠—have lived with Avon for three months?” Fanny cast up her eyes. The sound of a shutting door somewhere below roused her to sudden activity. “There! That is Edward returned from White’s already! I think I will go down and⁠—and talk to him while you rest. Poor child, I dare swear you are dreadfully fatigued?”

“N-no,” said Léonie. “But you will tell Mr. Marling that I have come, is it not so? And if he does not like it⁠—and I do not think that he will⁠—I can⁠—”

“Fiddle!” said Fanny, blushing faintly. “No such thing, my love, I assure you. Edward will be enchanted! Of course he will, stupid child! A pretty thing ’twould be an I could not twist him round my finger. ’Twas only that I wanted you to rest, and indeed you shall! I vow you are nigh dropping with fatigue! Don’t try to argue with me, Léonie!”

“I am not arguing,” Léonie pointed out.

“No⁠—well, I thought you might, and it makes me so cross! Come with me, and I will take you to your chamber.” She led Léonie to a blue guest chamber, and sighed. “Ravishing!” she said. “I wish you were not quite so lovely. Your eyes are like those velvet curtains. I got them in Paris, my dear. Are they not exquisite? I forbid you to touch your dress while I am gone, mind!” She frowned direfully, patted Léonie’s hand, and was gone in a whirl of silks and laces, leaving Léonie alone in the middle of the room.

Léonie walked to a chair, and sat down carefully, heels together, and hands demurely clasped in her lap.

“This,” she told herself, “is not very nice, I think. Monseigneur has gone away, and I could never find him in this great, horrible London. That Fanny is a fool, I think. Or perhaps she is mad, as she said.” Léonie paused to consider the point. “Well, perhaps she is just English. And Edward will not like me to be here. Mon Dieu, I suppose he will think I am just une fille de joie. That is very possible. I wish Monseigneur had not gone.” This thought occupied her mind for some moments, and led to another. “I wonder what he will think of me when he sees me? That Fanny said I was lovely. Of course that is just silly, but I think I look a little pretty.” She rose, and planted her chair down before the mirror. She frowned upon her reflection and shook her head. “You are not Léon: that is very certain. Only one little bit of you is Léon.” She bent forward to look at her feet, shod still in Léon’s shoes. “Hélas! Only yesterday I was Léon the page, and now I am Mademoiselle de Bonnard. And I am very uncomfortable in these clothes. I think too that I am a little frightened. There is not even M. Davenant left. I shall be forced to eat pudding, and that woman will kiss me.” She heaved a large sigh. “Life is very hard,” she remarked sadly.