Renée allowed herself to be reassured. A ceremonious visit that M. Livret insisted on was paid to the chapel of Diane, where she had worshipped and laid her widowed ashes, which, said M. Livret, the fiends of the Revolution would not let rest. He raised his voice to denounce them. It was Roland de Croisnel that answered: “The Revolution was our grandmother, monsieur, and I cannot hear her abused.” Renée caught her brother by the hand. He stepped out of the chapel with Beauchamp to embrace him; then kissed Renée, and, remarking that she was pale, fetched flooding colour to her cheeks. He was hearty air to them after the sentimentalism they had been hearing. Beauchamp and he walked like loving comrades at school, questioning, answering, chattering, laughing,—a beautiful sight to Renée, and she looked at Agnès d’Auffray to ask her whether “this Englishman” was not one of them in his frankness and freshness. Roland stopped to turn to Renée. “I met d’Henriel on my ride here,” he said with a sharp inquisitive expression of eye that passed immediately. “You rode here from Tourdestelle, then,” said Renée. “Has he been one of the company, marquise?” “Did he ride by you without speaking, Roland?” “Thus.” Roland described a Spanish caballero’s formallest salutation, saying to Beauchamp, “Not the best sample of our young Frenchman;—woman-spoiled! Not that the better kind of article need be spoiled by them—heaven forbid that! Friend Nevil,” he spoke lower, “do you know, you have something of the prophet in you? I remember: much has come true. An old spoiler of women is worse than one spoiled by them! Ah, well: and Madame Culling? and your seven-feet high uncle? And have you a fleet to satisfy Nevil Beauchamp yet? You shall see a trial of our new field-guns at Rouen.” They were separated with difficulty. Renée wished her brother to come in the boat; and he would have done so, but for his objection to have his Arab bestridden by a man unknown to him. “My love is a four-foot, and here’s my love,” Roland said, going outside the gilt gate-rails to the graceful little beast, that acknowledged his ownership with an arch and swing of the neck round to him. He mounted and called, “Au revoir, M. le Capitaine.” “Au revoir, M. le Commandant,” cried Beauchamp. “Admiral and marshal, each of us in good season,” said Roland. “Thanks to your promotion, I had a letter from my sister. Advance a grade, and I may get another.” Beauchamp thought of the strange gulf now between him and the time when he pined to be a commodore, and an admiral. The gulf was bridged as he looked at Renée petting Roland’s horse. “Is there in the world so lovely a creature?” she said, and appealed fondlingly to the beauty that brings out beauty, and, bidding it disdain rivalry, rivalled it insomuch that in a moment of trance Beauchamp with his bodily vision beheld her, not there, but on the Lido of Venice, shining out of the years gone.