"Don't wait dinner for me to-night. I shan't be able to come in again. I'll say good night to both of you." He was gone; and Adrienne cried out impulsively: "He looks as if someone has challenged him to fight a duel. I hope I shall never encounter one of those looks from him." "Are you talking of Guy? Duels are not much in his line," said her aunt; "I always think he is too easy in his dealing with his fellow-creatures. Certainly with the peasants he is, and he is strangely unsociable over here. Never makes friends with his father's acquaintances. Dear Philippe made a great mistake by letting him be educated in America. He was always with his mother's people. No, I don't think he is likely to be called out by any French dueller. But he is too reserved. Why could he not have told us frankly what was in that note? I am not inquisitive, but in this dull hole everything is of interest." "I never can understand whether you like or dislike this Château," said Adrienne. "And I don't understand myself," said the Countess. "When the Bouveries press me, and hint that they mean to take possession, I would give my soul to remain here; but when the dull days come, and the monotony depresses me, I long to run away from it, and never see it again." "It would save you a lot of worry and care if you did that," said Adrienne carelessly. Then the Countess almost stormed at her, she was so angry. And having worked herself up into a state of emotion and heroics over her darling husband's ancestral home with all its past historic stories, she dissolved into tears, and Adrienne had the greatest difficulty in the world to calm her and comfort her. Punctually at seven o'clock the next morning, Guy was waiting with the horses. "I wondered if you would remember," said Adrienne, when she had joined him and they were walking their horses through the cool green glades in the wood. "I am not given to fail," he said shortly. "No, but you left us in a very perturbed state of mind last night, and I was afraid that your business might interfere with our pleasure this morning." He made no reply to this. He was unusually abstracted and distrait, and after some minutes of silence, Adrienne said gaily: "Really, Cousin Guy, if your soul is going to be miles away from me, it will be a very dull ride with only your body for company." He turned and looked at her. "Perhaps you would prefer to ride alone?" "I should prefer you to respond to me a little. Am I very demanding?" He still did not speak, and they rode on in silence through the wood. Then as they came out in the open, he said with a little effort: "That artist up the hill died last night. I want you to ride with me now to a Protestant parson who lives about eight miles away. I told his sister I would send him to her."