Claude was found! and she trembled with delight. But, alas! he had heard her passionate call and yet stood still; had looked down upon her in silence, and drawn again the curtain between them. She had thought until the last moment, "He will come; he will confront us as we pass out the door--will overtake us at the foot of the stairs--on the sidewalk--at the carriage window." But it had not been so; and now they were gone from the place; and here sat this friend, this gay, cynical knower of men's and women's ways, answering her chatter in short, smiling responses, with a steady eye fixed on her, and reading, Marguerite believed, as plainly as if it were any of the sign-boards along the rattling street, the writing on her fluttering heart. And so, even while she trembled with strange delight, pain, shame, and alarm pleaded through her dancing glances, now by turns and now in confusion together, for mercy and concealment. But in fact, as this friend sat glancing upon the young face beside her with secret sympathy and admiration, it was only this wild fear of betrayal that at length betrayed. Reaching the house, the street door was hardly shut behind them when Marguerite would have darted up to her chamber; but her friend caught her hands across the balustrade, and said, with roguery in her own eyes: "Marguerite, you sweet rowdy--" "W'at?" "Yes, _what_. There's something up; what is it?" The girl tried to put on surprise; but her eyes failed her again. She leaned on the rail and looked down, meanwhile trying softly to draw away up-stairs; but her friend held on to one hand and murmured: "Just one question, dearie, just one. I'll not ask another: I'll die first. You'll probably find me _in articulo mortis_ when you come down-stairs. Just one question, lovie." "_W'at_ it is?" "It's nothing but this; I ask for information." The voice dropped to a whisper,--"Is he as handsome as his portrait?" The victim rallied all her poor powers of face, and turned feebly upon the questioner: "Po'trait? Who?" Her voice was low, and she glanced furtively at the nearest door. "I dawn't awnstan you." Her hand pulled softly for its freedom, and she turned to go, repeating, with averted face, "I dawn't awnstan you 't all." "Well, never mind then, dear, if you don't understand," responded the tease, with mock tenderness. "But, _ma belle Creole_--" "_Je suis Acadienne._" "You're an angel, faintly disguised. Only--look around here--only, Angelica, don't try to practise woman's humbug on a woman. At least, not on this old one. It doesn't work. I'll tell you whom I mean." She pulled, but Marguerite held off. "I mean," she hoarsely whispered,--"I mean the young inventor that engineer told us about. Remember?" Marguerite, with her head bowed low, slowly dragged her hand free, and moved with growing speed up the stairs, saying: