He turned away, and bent over his table, arranging a paper here, closing a drawer there. After a few moments he came to where she stood, and looked fixedly at her for a short time. His former look she had met, but before this her eyes dropped. "Citoyenne," he said slowly, "I ask your pardon. I had hoped that—" He paused, and began again. "I am no informer—you may have reliance on my honour and my friendship. I warned you because I saw you friendless and inexperienced. These are dangerous times—times of change and development. I believe with all my heart in the goal towards which we are striving, but many will fall by the way—some from weakness, some by the sword. I was but offering a hand to one whom I saw in danger of stumbling." His altered tone and grave manner softened Aline’s mood. "Indeed, Citizen," she cried on the impulse, "you have been very kind to me. I am not ungrateful—I have too few friends for that." "Do you count me a friend, Citoyenne?" Mademoiselle drew back a shade. "What is a friend—what is friendship?" she said more lightly. And Dangeau sought for cool and temperate words. "Friendship is mutual help, mutual good-will—a bond which is rooted in honour, confidence, and esteem. A friend is one who will neither be oppressive in prosperity nor faithless in adversity," he said. "And are you such a friend, Citizen?" "If you will accept my friendship, you will learn whether I am such a friend or not." The measured words, the carefully controlled voice, emboldened Mademoiselle. She threw a searching glance at the dark, downcast features above her, and her youth went out to his. "I will try this friendship of yours, Citizen," she said, with a little smile, and she held out her hand to him. Dangeau flushed deeply. His self-control shook, but only for a moment. Then he raised the slim hand, and, bending to meet it, kissed it as if it had been the Queen’s, and he a devout Loyalist. It was Aline’s turn to wake and wonder that night, acting out the little scene a hundred times. Why that flame of sudden anger—that tempest which had so shaken her? What was this power which drew her on to experiment, to play, with forces beyond her understanding? She felt again the weight of his hands upon her, her flesh tingled, and she blushed hotly in the darkness. No one had ever touched her so before. Wild anger woke in her, and wilder tears came burning to her burning cheeks. Truly a girl’s heart is a strange thing. The shyest maid will weave dream-tales of passionate love, in which she plays the heroine to every gallant hero history holds or romance presents. Their dream kisses leave her modesty untouched, their fervent speeches bring no faintest flush to her virgin cheeks. Comes then an actual lover, and all at once is changed. The garment of her dreams falls from her, and leaves her naked and ashamed. A look affronts, a word offends, and a touch goes near to make her swoon.