‘Yes.’ He spoke in a key that only Marjorie could hear. ‘For just five minutes I should like to claim you. When I was at Tintajeux the day before yesterday, I was atrociously churlish to you, Miss Bartrand. I have been brought to see it since. Will you accept my apology?’ Geoffrey had ‘been brought to see’ his churlishness! Then he held at nought her offer of truce--the word it had cost her pride so dear to write! He offered her this cutting rejoinder, an apology! ‘You are hard upon me, Mr. Arbuthnot.’ There was a piteous deprecation in her voice. ‘When you were my master, I used to think you severe; but that was the worst. I believed you to be _human_.’ ‘I am afraid I am very human.’ Geoffrey took up a fresh photograph; he examined it at a curiously shortsighted focus. ‘So human,’ he added, softening, ‘that I have not altogether given up the hope of your some day writing to me.’ ‘A formal, set letter, do you mean?’ ‘A letter,’ said Geff, very low, ‘in which no thought of the Tintajeux acres has place.’ For a moment her face showed one of its old bright flashes. In the world of story books it had ever been Marjorie’s pleasure to scoff at the frail impediments, arising from the necessity of a third volume, which keep true lovers apart. Should paltry reserve--the thought came upon her abruptly--should schoolgirl cowardice divide her, as though three hundred pages of ‘copy’ depended upon the quarrel, from Geoffrey? ‘I don’t know what you would have me say. I can’t see why you should be off so quick! I tried--I hoped----’ But while the monosyllables came haltingly from Marjorie’s tongue, a stir had arisen in the larger drawing-room. It was plain that a group of people, young men and maidens taking counsel together in a corner, were bent on some kind of action. Their project matured quickly. Rosie Verschoyle shot a beseeching glance at old Andros as she went through a meaning pantomime of the waltz step. Little Oscar Jones, with the air of a man upon whom rests an onerous embassy, made his way across both rooms to Marjorie. ‘Ten thousand pardons, Miss Bartrand! Would not intrude for the world on a tête-à-tête. Fact is, you see, some of them want to get up a dance on the lawn.’ ‘A dance! Absurdity!’ cried Marjorie, bestowing on him an ultra-Bartrand look. Then, recollecting their position as hostess and guest, ‘I mean, would not tennis amuse you just as well?’ she observed, with show of interest. ‘Or ask Gertrude de Carteret to sing, or----’ ‘But, dear Miss Bartrand, we all of us want to _dance_,’ persisted the handsome little lieutenant, with a smile that he had grounds for believing irresistible. ‘Miss Tighe volunteers to play for us beside an open window. Powerful backstairs interest is at this moment bearing down on the Seigneur. We only want an encouraging word from you.’