She went to the window, and looked across the wide stretch of meadow-land and woodland on which the château, set on the very crown of the ridge, looked down. The road, running with the irritating straightness of so many of the roads of France, was visible for a full three miles. It was empty. “Perhaps the Duke went to the château de Relzières to see his cousin—though I fancy that at bottom the Duke does not care very much for the Baron de Relzières. They always look as though they detested one another,” said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the letter she was addressing. “You’ve noticed that, have you?” said Germaine. “Now, as far as Jacques is concerned—he’s—he’s so indifferent. None the less, when we were at the Relzières on Thursday, I caught him quarrelling with Paul de Relzières.” “Quarrelling?” said Sonia sharply, with a sudden uneasiness in air and eyes and voice. “Yes; quarrelling. And they said good-bye to one another in the oddest way.” “But surely they shook hands?” said Sonia. “Not a bit of it. They bowed as if each of them had swallowed a poker.” “Why—then—then—” said Sonia, starting up with a frightened air; and her voice stuck in her throat. “Then what?” said Germaine, a little startled by her panic-stricken face. “The duel! Monsieur de Relzières’ duel!” cried Sonia. “What? You don’t think it was with Jacques?” “I don’t know—but this quarrel—the Duke’s manner this morning—the Du Buits’ drive—” said Sonia. “Of course—of course! It’s quite possible—in fact it’s certain!” cried Germaine. “It’s horrible!” gasped Sonia. “Consider—just consider! Suppose something happened to him. Suppose the Duke—” “It’s me the Duke’s fighting about!” cried Germaine proudly, with a little skipping jump of triumphant joy. Sonia stared through her without seeing her. Her face was a dead white—fear had chilled the lustre from her skin; her breath panted through her parted lips; and her dilated eyes seemed to look on some dreadful picture. Germaine pirouetted about the hall at the very height of triumph. To have a Duke fighting a duel about her was far beyond the wildest dreams of snobbishness. She chuckled again and again, and once she clapped her hands and laughed aloud. “He’s fighting a swordsman of the first class—an invincible swordsman—you said so yourself,” Sonia muttered in a tone of anguish. “And there’s nothing to be done—nothing.” She pressed her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a hideous vision. Germaine did not hear her; she was staring at herself in a mirror, and bridling to her own image. Sonia tottered to the window and stared down at the road along which must come the tidings of weal or irremediable woe. She kept passing her hand over her eyes as if to clear their vision. Suddenly she started, and bent forward, rigid, all her being concentrated in the effort to see. Then she cried: “Mademoiselle Germaine! Look! Look!” “What is it?” said Germaine, coming to her side.