I flushed hotly. But in the deepening dusk my confusion passed unseen. What gossip had come this way? What magnifying and distortion of a very little affair, so soon gone by and so lightly forgotten? “The swords of New France are just now sheathed for a little,” said I, with some reserve in my voice. “They are biding the call to new and hotter work, or I should not be free for even this breathing-spell. As for Quebec,”—for I would not seem to have heard mademoiselle’s interruption,—“for years there has been but one place where I desired to be, and that is here; so I have come, but it is not for long. Great schemes are afoot.” “For long or for little, my boy,” said he, dropping his tone of banter, “your home here must be under our roof.” Having intended staying, as of old, with Father Fafard, I knew not for a moment what to say. I would—and yet a voice within said I would not. I noted that Yvonne spoke no word in support of her father’s invitation. While I hesitated we had entered the house, and I found myself bending over the wizened little hand of Madame de Lamourie. My decision was postponed. Had I guessed how my silence would by and by be misinterpreted I would assuredly have decided on the spot, whichever way. “It is not only for the breath of gayety from Chateau St. Louis which you bring with you, my dear Paul, that you are welcome,” said Madame, with that fine air of affectionate coquetry, reminiscent of Versailles, which so delightfully became her. I kissed her hand again. We had always been the best of friends. “But let me present to you,” she went on, “our good friend, who must also be yours: Mr. George Anderson;” and observing for the first time a tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy man, who stood a little to one side of the fireplace, I bowed to him very courteously. Our eyes met. I felt for him a prompt friendliness, and as if moved by one impulse we clasped hands. “With all my heart,” said I, being then in cordial mood, and eager to love one loved of these my friends. “And mine,” he said, in a quiet, grave voice, “if it please you, monsieur.” “Yet,” I laughed, “if you are English, Monsieur Anderson, we must officially be enemies. I trust our difference may be in all love.” “Yes,” said Madame, with a dry little biting accent which she much affected, “yes, indeed, in all love, my dear Paul. Monsieur Anderson _is_ English—and he is the betrothed husband of our Yvonne,” she added, watching me keenly.