“Of course, as surely as I am Gabrielle de Malincourt. My uncle and my one good friend and adviser--up to now.” She lifted her eyes and smiled as she emphasised the last words. “Your good friend and adviser!” he repeated. “How oddly you speak, cousin. Is it not by his counsel and urging that you are here?” “That I am here?” he asked, this time with a start. “Perhaps you are not glad to have been brought here.” “Mademoiselle, I have seen you,” he answered with a bow. Gabrielle laughed gaily. “How formal, cousin.” “I am lost in wonderment. I know not what to say.” “It is well that you are quicker with your sword than with your tongue, or it would have gone harder than it did with my poor Denys just now. But perhaps I understand. You are surprised in me. I am different from what you expected.” “You are the fairest woman I have ever seen.” She blushed again and smiled. “Yet you could not look more scared were I the ugliest witch. Shall I tell you a secret? I have dreaded your coming.” “Pray God I may never give you cause to repent it, mademoiselle,” he replied with an intense earnestness which drew her gaze full upon him. “Mademoiselle?” she repeated, after a pause, with a touch of coquetry. “Mademoiselle--from cousin to cousin?” He started again uneasily, for the question put a fresh puzzle to him--how to address her. Then he put it by and asked-- “Why did you dread my coming, as you say?” She first winced and bit her lip, and then, setting her head a little on one side, she glanced up at him with a mischievous smile. “I once knew such a horrid Gerard de Cobalt; and if you had been like him, oh----” the sentence ended in a shudder. “What, another Gerard de Cobalt?” he asked mystified. She laughed outright then, merrily and without restraint. “As if you did not know. How could there be any other Gerard de Cobalt but you? You were a horrid boy, you know; really horrid; cruel, rough, unkind just for unkindness’ sake. And you used to hate me--at least you said so; and I was glad of it.” “I must have been worse than unkind--a fool, I think, mademoiselle. Boys generally are,” he replied laughing. “Mademoiselle again?” “What should I say?” he asked, growing bolder the deeper he allowed himself to plunge into the mystery, and getting less and less willing to have it cleared up. “My name is Gabrielle,” she said half shyly, “unless you think mademoiselle prettier.” “Gabrielle.” He spoke the name in a soft tender tone with such a sweet reverence that she lowered her gaze and sighed. “So I was a horrid boy, was I?” he asked lightly, breaking the pause. She looked up then all smiles. “Don’t you remember? But of course you didn’t think so yourself, and I daresay thought me a little spitfire. You used to pinch me slyly and kick me, and laugh when you hurt me. I wonder I have not the bruises to this day. And have you forgotten that time I flew at you and boxed your ears?” “I wonder I can have forgotten,” he laughed.