"After all, now, that kiss was not so out of place," he said, with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Cousins may kiss all the world over." His glance was too frank to warrant offence, and Aline answered it with a smile. "With Monsieur’s permission I shall wait until I can kiss Madame ma cousine," she said, and dropped him a little curtsey. Mr. Desmond sighed. "I wish we were all well out of this," he said gloomily; "but how in the devil’s name, or the saints’ names, or any one else’s name, we are to get out of it, I don’t know. Well, well, the sooner it’s tried the better; so where is Marguerite, Madame my cousin?" Aline considered. "I can’t take you to her without asking leave of the friend she is with," she said at last; "but if you will wait here I will go and speak to her, and come back again when we have talked things over. We shall have to wait till it is quite dark, and you ’ll be careful, won’t you?" "I will," said Mr. Desmond, without hesitation. He kissed his hand to Aline as she went off, and she frowned at him, then smiled to herself, and disappeared amongst the trees, walking quickly and wondering what was to come next. At eleven o’clock that night a council of four sat in the apple loft at the mill. Marguerite, perched on a pile of hay, was leaning against Aline, who sat beside her. Every now and then she let one hand fall within reach of Mr. Desmond, who, reclining at her feet, invariably kissed it, and was invariably scolded for doing so. Madelon sat on the edge of the trap-door, her feet supported by the top rungs of the ladder which led to the barn below. She and Aline were grave, Marguerite pouting, and Mr. Desmond very much at his ease. "But what plan have you?" Aline was asking. "Oh, a hundred," he said carelessly. Marguerite pulled her hand away with a jerk. "Then you might at least tell us one," she said. "Ah, now I ’d tell you anything when you look at me like that," he said with fervour. "Then, tell me. No, now,—at once." He sat up and extracted a paper from his waistcoat pocket. It set forth that the Citizen Lemoine and his wife were at liberty to travel in France at their pleasure. "In France," said Aline. "Why, yes, one can’t advertise oneself as an emigré. Once on the frontier, one must make a dash for it,—it’s done every day." "But it says his wife," objected Marguerite, "and I ’m not your wife." "And I ’m not Lemoine, but it does n’t hurt my conscience to say I am,—not in the least," returned Mr. Desmond. "But I can’t go with you like that," she protested. "What would grandmamma have said?" Mr. Desmond gave an ironical laugh. "Your sainted grandmamma is past knowing what we do, and we ’re past the conventions, my dear," he observed, but she only sat up the straighter.