“Really, Marie,” protested the Colonel, “you say most strange things!” “Is that so, Juan?” she replied, casting one of her queer glances in his direction; “but how would you like to be surrounded by a lot of drabs, eh? That man, Mr. Knox,” she extended one white hand in the direction of Colonel Menendez, the fingers half closed, in a gesture which curiously reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt, “that man would notice if a parlourmaid came into the room with a shoe unbuttoned. Poof! if we love elegance it is because without it the men would never love _us_.” Colonel Menendez bent across the table and kissed the white fingers in his courtier-like fashion. “My sweet cousin,” he said, “I should love you in rags.” Madame smiled and flushed like a girl, but withdrawing her hand she shrugged. “They would have to be _pretty_ rags!” she added. During this little scene I detected Val Beverley looking at me in a vaguely troubled way, and it was easy to guess that she was wondering what construction I should place upon it. However: “I am going into the town,” declared Madame de Stämer, energetically. “Half the things ordered from Hartley’s have never been sent.” “Oh, Madame, please let _me_ go,” cried Val Beverley. “My dear,” pronounced Madame, “I will not let you go, but I will let you come with me if you wish.” She rang a little bell which stood upon the tea-table beside the urn, and Pedro came out through the drawing room. “Pedro,” she said, “is the car ready?” The Spanish butler bowed. “Tell Carter to bring it round. Hurry, dear,” to the girl, “if you are coming with me. I shall not be a minute.” Thereupon she whisked her mechanical chair about, waved her hand to dismiss Pedro, and went steering through the drawing room at a great rate, with Val Beverley walking beside her. As we resumed our seats Colonel Menendez lay back with half-closed eyes, his glance following the chair and its occupant until both were swallowed up in the shadows of the big drawing room. “Madame de Stämer is a very remarkable woman,” said Paul Harley. “Remarkable?” replied the Colonel. “The spirit of all the old chivalry of France is imprisoned within her, I think.” He passed cigarettes around, of a long kind resembling cheroots and wrapped in tobacco leaf. I thought it strange that having thus emphasized Madame’s nationality he did not feel it incumbent upon him to explain the mystery of their kinship. However, he made no attempt to do so, and almost before we had lighted up, a racy little two-seater was driven around the gravel path by Carter, the chauffeur who had brought us to Cray’s Folly from London. The man descended and began to arrange wraps and cushions, and a few moments later back came Madame again, dressed for driving. Carter was about to lift her into the car when Colonel Menendez stood up and advanced. “Sit down, Juan, sit down!” said Madame, sharply. A look of keen anxiety, I had almost said of pain, leapt into her eyes, and the Colonel hesitated.