He paused. He had so often explained to Madame de Carlsberg the resemblance between Yvonne de Chésy and his dead daughter, which moved him so strongly, that she was not deceived in regard to the secret reason of his strange interest and stranger proposition. There was in this business man, with all his colossal schemes, a touch of romanticism almost fantastic, and so singular that Ely did not doubt his sincerity, nor even wonder at it. The thought of seeing that pretty and charming face, sister to the one he had loved so much, soiled by the vile lust of a Brion, or some other _entreteneur_ of impoverished women of society, filled this man with horror, and, like a genuine Yankee, he employed the most practical means of preventing this sacrilege. Neither was Ely surprised at the inconsistency of Marsh's conscience when the speculator found Brion's rascality in money affairs very natural, while the Anglo-Saxon was revolted at the mere thought of a love-affair. No, it was not astonishment that Madame de Carlsberg felt at this unexpected confidence. Troubled as she was by her own unhappiness, she felt a new thrill of sadness. While she and Marsh paced from one end of the boat to the other during this conversation, she could hear Yvonne de Chésy laughing gayly with Hautefeuille. For this child, too, the day had been delicious, and yet misfortune was approaching her, from out of the bottomless gulf of destiny. This impression was so intense that, after leaving Marsh, Ely went instinctively to the young woman, and kissed her tenderly. And she, laughing, answered:-- "That is good of you. But you have been so good to me ever since you discovered me. It took you long enough." "What do you mean?" asked the Baroness. "That you did not at first suspect that there was a gallant little man hidden in your crazy Yvonne! Pierre's sister knows it well, and always has." As the pretty and heedless young woman made this profession of faith, her clear eyes revealed a conscience so good in spite of her fast tone, that Ely felt her heart still more oppressed. The night had come, and the first bell for dinner had sounded. The three lights, white, green, and red, shone now like precious stones on the port, the starboard, and the foremast. Ely felt an arm pass under hers. It was Andryana Bonnacorsi who said:-- "It is too bad that we must go down to dress; it would be so pleasant to spend the whole night here." "Would it not?" replied the Baroness, murmuring to herself, "She at least is happy." Then aloud: "It is the farewell dinner to your widowhood; you must look beautiful. But you seem to be worried." "I am thinking of my brother," said the Italian woman, "and the thought of him weighs upon me like remorse. And then, I think also of Corancez. He is a year younger than I. That is nothing to-day, but in ten years?"