“Oh, Colonel, you are so severe!” exclaimed the General’s wife as John Milling came up and favored her with the next figure in the cotillion. Little did Mollie and Barclugh know that they were the observed of all observers in the ball-room. The French Minister came up to them and shook his finger slyly at Barclugh and said: “_Une fille par excellence de la belle France_.” Barclugh colored slightly and rose to give the host a chance to speak to Mollie and bowed very low. He then made his way to the side of Madam Arnold. “This is so sweet of you, _ma chere_, to grace our assembly with your presence,” smilingly remarked the fat and jolly minister, while rubbing his hands together nervously. “My compliments to your mama,” continued the diplomat, “but look out and do not lose your heart to my countryman, Mr. Barclugh. He is very gay, very gay.” He then passed on to General Arnold. “No dancing for you, _mon cher general_, eh?” “_Certainment! Certainment!_” replied the diplomat as the General pointed to his wounded knee, a relic of Saratoga. Mollie now had a chance to pause for a few minutes from the gay whirl of the dance, but she wished that she had never been allowed the opportunity. She grew pale as she saw Roderick Barclugh talking with Mrs. Arnold in a confidential manner. There was just one nod of her head that spoke volumes to Mollie. Hot and cold tremors coursed through her veins, for she could not fathom Mrs. Arnold, therefore she was a mystery to her and Mollie did not like her. “Is it Tuesday, then?” queried Mrs. Arnold in a voice above the music of the dance. “Tuesday,” nodded Barclugh in reply, just loud enough for Mollie to hear it. “Pardon me, Miss Mollie,” came from Barclugh as he took his seat, “I was just making an appointment to ride out with the Commandant and his wife next Tuesday.” She made no reply, but looked displeased. The intermission for refreshments ensued, and instead of going directly to the tables where the coffee and chocolate were served, Barclugh and Mollie continued their _tete-a-tete_. “I missed your presence so much at Dorminghurst when we had our last tea party, Mr. Barclugh,” said Mollie with much emphasis. “I am flattered, Miss Greydon,” was all Barclugh could reply. His manner was agitated. Barclugh did not know why this mere girl should have such an influence upon him. She was a surprise to his soul. Used to the artificial manners of the French Court he could not believe his own eyes when he beheld such grace of person, stately courtesy and dignity in any living being as the one before him. “But, you know, I do not give flattery,” flashed from the pretty lips. “Maybe, if I stayed away from your tea party you would not care for that?” queried Barclugh with intensity in his voice. “Ah, but you know that I said ‘I missed you,’” answered Mollie with a merry glance over the top of her fan. At this juncture the Comte de Noailles happened along and urged on the dancers: