"And Aileen Desmond the loveliest girl," put in Mme de Maillé thoughtlessly; then, observing her hostess’s change of expression, she coloured, but continued—"They were not so badly matched, and," with a little sigh, "they were very happy. It was a real romance." Mme de Montargis’ eyes flashed. Twenty years ago beautiful Aileen Desmond had been her rival at Court. Now that for quite a dozen years gossip had coupled her name with that of the Vicomte de Sélincourt, was Aileen Desmond’s daughter to take her mother’s place in that bygone rivalry? Mme de Maillé, catching her glance, wondered how it would fare with any defenceless girl who came between Laure de Montargis and her lover. She was still wondering whilst she made her farewells. When M. le Vicomte had bowed her out he came moodily back to his place. "It is very inconvenient, Madame," he said pettishly. "You say so," returned the lady. "Pardon, Madame, it was you who said so." The Marquise laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Of course it was I," she cried. "Who else? It is hardly likely that M. le Vicomte finds a rich bride inconvenient." Sélincourt’s face changed a little, but he waved the words away. "Mademoiselle is nothing to me," he asserted. "Chère amie, do you suspect, do you doubt the faithful heart which for years has beaten only for one beloved object?" The lady pouted, but her eyes ceased to sparkle. "And that object?" she inquired, with a practised glance. "Angel of my life—need you ask?" It was indeed unnecessary, since a very short acquaintance with this fervid lover was sufficient to assure any one that his devotion to himself was indeed his ruling and unalterable passion; perhaps the Marquise was aware of this, and was content to take the second, but not the third place, in his affections. She looked at him coquettishly. "Ah," she said, "you mean it now, now perhaps, Monsieur, but when she comes, when you are married?" "Eh, ma foi," and the Vicomte waved away his prospective marriage vows as lightly as if they were thistle-down, "one does not marry for love; the heart must be free, not bound,—and where will the free heart turn except to the magnet that has drawn it for so long?" Madame extended a white, languid hand, and Monsieur kissed it with more elegance than fervour. As he was raising his head she whispered sharply: "The new cipher, have you got it?" He bent lower, and kissed the fair hand again, lingeringly. "It is here, and I have drafted the letter we spoke of; it must go this week." "The Queen is well?" "Well, but impatient for news. There is an Austrian medicine that she longs for." "Chut! Enough, one is never safe." "Adieu, then, m’amie." "Adieu, M. le Vicomte."