‘I shall certainly not leave Guernsey without calling on the Seigneur--to be paid.’ To the cruel words, to such remote and slender hope of reconciliation as they might hold forth, Marjorie’s heart clung tenaciously. She was softer of manner to-day than was her wont, played her part of hostess with studied dutifulness towards her grandfather’s visitors. The annual Sunday School treat would come on next week, said the rectoress of some remote country parish. Of course one might count on Marjorie Bartrand to lead the games? Had the great St. Laurens scandal reached Tintajeux, asked another? Maître Giroflée and his wife, the best church people in the parish, gone over to Salem because the rector had cut down their pew--good solid oak, it must be confessed, worth so much a foot--in making his chancel restorations! Oh, with what weary patience the poor child listened to it all, making occasional random answer, when answer was needed. How utterly had her vivid child’s life lost its interest! How flat, how dissonant was every sound on this planet to Marjorie Bartrand, so long as the footstep for whose approach she yearned was silent! ‘Why--witch! Your cheeks are as white as your gown,’ remarked the Reverend Andros, happening, presently, to come across her. ‘We must get our Cambridge Esculapius to prescribe for you. What is Arbuthnot doing with himself?’ added the Seigneur, with a hard look at his granddaughter. ‘We are short of the inferior sex to-day. Why is Arbuthnot not here to make himself useful among the tea-cups?’ ‘Afternoon parties are not much in my tutor’s way. But I believe--yes,’ faltered Marjorie, with one of her dark blushes, ‘I believe--at this moment--I see a figure like Mr. Arbuthnot’s crossing the moor. We will put a tea-cup in each of his hands, sir, as soon as we feel certain of having caught him.’ She fled into the recess of a window in the smaller drawing-room. Standing there, shrouded by the lace draperies, she wondered if _more_ than a dozen pair of eyes had noticed her change of colour! She clenched her hands until the nails impressed her soft palms painfully. She essayed, with will, to keep her rebel cheeks from flaming, her lips from weakness. She marvelled by what art she could render her manner passive--Marjorie Bartrand, who during her seventeen years of life had, at every pass, gone aggressively to the fore, for good or for evil--on her tutor’s entrance.