“You impertinent little rebel!” said Louis. “How dare you say that to me? How do you know I will submit to such audacity? You make heavy draughts upon my clemency.” “I’m afraid I do,” said Margaret; “but I’ve always had them generously honored. But while we are on the subject, there’s one thing that I do want to say to you. Do you know, I have observed that your brother never gives General Reardon his title? In speaking of him to me or Cousin Eugenia, he always says ‘your cousin,’ and in speaking to him he avoids calling him anything at all. Once only, when he had to say something, he called him ‘Mr. Reardon.’ He did indeed!” “Well, in point of fact, you know,” said Louis, rather uncomfortably, “he’s got no more right to the title of General than you have. The point has been definitely decided. It is only a matter of courtesy.” “I don’t know who had the power to decide it,” Margaret said; “but we are not considering the point of legal right. Its being, as you admit, a matter of courtesy, should settle the thing, I think. Don’t you?” “Yes,” he said, “I do. I’m not sure I always thought so, but I do now.” When they reached the theatre, they found the overture just begun. A few minutes later they saw Mrs. Vere’s party enter and place themselves in their box. The dashing young hostess led the way, and seated herself _en évidence_, with a brilliant party grouped about her. One or two of these Margaret recognized, and Louis knew them all, naming them, without comment, to Margaret. There was some one whom they did not see, sitting in the shadow behind the curtain, and to this person Mrs. Vere directed a greater part of her attention. She constantly leaned to speak to him, or bowed her head to catch his utterances, casting toward him now and then the languishing looks which her peculiarly long eyelashes rendered so effective. Margaret felt that this person was Alan Decourcy, and at the end of the first act her suspicion was proved to be correct, as he then rose and came to Mrs. Vere’s side to take a survey of the house. He looked very graceful and elegant, but, in some way, the great charm his appearance had once possessed for her was gone. When she turned her eyes away from him, they rested, almost without any volition of her own, upon Louis Gaston’s quiet profile. He was looking away from her, and so she could scan at leisure the earnest lineaments that had in them a genuineness and nobleness so much better than beauty. The more she felt her disappointment in Alan Decourcy, the more she believed in and rested upon Louis Gaston’s friendship. Imperceptibly her regard for him had widened and deepened, until now merely to think of him was to feel peaceful and safe and at rest. CHAPTER XVI.