Not a word or a flicker of an eyebrow. Her cousin strode on, as if she had not spoken. "I am seeing you in a new light," Adrienne went on; "I was beginning to like you, and to enjoy your company. Your behaviour this morning is quite irritating enough to stop all friendship between us." Then Guy stopped, and looked at her. His sternness had disappeared, and his eyes were smiling if not his lips. "You are an adept at tongue lashing," he said; "women always are. But words never affect me, only deeds. When you are calm, I will speak. If you had full confidence, instead of mere liking, you would have given me the promise I want, for you would have known I should never have frustrated your wishes from mere caprice or from sheer tyranny." "I cannot obey blindly. Why should I? I am not a child." But Adrienne's tone was no longer haughty; she was beginning to feel ashamed of the temper she had shown. For a moment or two, he led her horse on in silence. Then she said suddenly: "You can take your hand away. I won't be led along in this fashion. I'll give up my visit—for to-day." He dropped the bridle at once. Adrienne whipped up her steed and cantered away from him through the woods, never drawing rein till she reached the Château. She felt really angry with her cousin, angrier than she had ever felt with anyone before. "Does he expect to shut me up in the Château with my aunt, and only know a few of her French Bridge-playing friends? And when I get a chance of knowing another Englishwoman, shall I not take it? What possible concern is it of his? I wish I had gone before he returned. I liked the look of her. And I mean to see her again. I shall walk out to-morrow if it is fine." But that evening Guy appeared at dinner. Adrienne was standing at an open door in the salon humming a little song to herself, and waiting for her aunt. She always dressed very simply. Her white gown was almost severe in its cut, and only a cluster of crimson roses at her breast relieved its white purity. As she stood there, a picture of a fresh English girl in her slim grace and dignity, with her sunny brown hair just touched with the golden rays of the sun, Guy from the threshold of the door gazed at her with intent dreamy eyes. And then, turning, she saw him: her little song died away on her lips, her smile disappeared. "Am I forgiven?" he asked, advancing into the room. Adrienne glanced at him in cold disdain. The entrance of her aunt saved her from the necessity of a reply. She was very silent during dinner, and her aunt said at last to Guy: "Well, I am thankful you are back. I've been telling Adrienne that she is becoming dull. I suppose she's getting tired of us." "I have had the misfortune to offend her," Guy said coolly. Adrienne shot an indignant glance at him, but it was not her way to sulk.