‘An excuse! Consider what you talk about!’ exclaimed Pouchée solemnly. ‘Have your splendid news, with all my heart! But have your splendid dinner, too. The Master of Matthias keeps the best table in the University. At his house you meet----’ ‘The most distinguished society of Cambridge. Oh, Pouchée, what should I find to say to distinguished society ... to any king or emperor in Europe?... Hark! There is Great St. Mary’s clock striking the quarter. We have not a minute to lose. Write a note, Mademoiselle, in your best hand, with your pretty, courteous French grace, and give it to the coachman to deliver. I must read my letter through once more.’ Seven was the appointed time of the Master’s dinner-party. At the moment when Great St. Mary’s clock boomed the hour’s first stroke, Marjorie Bartrand extinguished her candles. She descended with muffled tread to the red baize door at the turning of the stairs. Here she paused, listened until she heard the shrill treble of French voices, knew that the Pouchées were safely talking together downstairs. Then, on tiptoe, she stole to Geoffrey’s quarters. The door stood ajar; a stray reflected flare of gaslight from some shop window in the court beneath enabled her to grope her way across the chill and comfortless room. The girl paused, irresolute. She remembered Cassandra Tighe’s story, remembered the miniature Bartrands, the confession made in their presence of Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s first love. During a few seconds the old Bartrand pride swayed her--the happiness of her life hung by a thread. Then she took a packet from her breast. She laid it meekly, furtively, on the student’s writing-table and fled, like one who quits the scene of a committed crime, to the light and cheerfulness of the little salon below. Pouchée was decking the mantelshelf with the violets Marjorie should have worn. ‘Headstrong as ever, child! But I forbear to reason,’ she cried, ‘until you explain yourself. That big Italian letter, re-directed in the Seigneur’s hand, has brought you important news?’ ‘I will answer you to-morrow, Pouchée. All I know is that I have lost my chance of distinguished society, and that my heart is the happiest heart in all Cambridge.’ ‘Grand ciel! Then you have a dear friend among the Florentines!’ Poor Pouchée’s face brimmed over with curiosity. ‘I accept him, without conditions, for your sake. The Italians are ungrateful as rats. Think of all my country has done for them! Still, if a Florentine is your fate----’ But her imaginary concessions were cut short; the violets slipped through Pouchée’s fingers. There came the sudden click of a latchkey at the house door. A man’s firm step sounded in the passage. ‘It is our gentleman! Save yourself, quick, child! The curtain of the bay window will hide you.’