And Lucienne’s instinct was not at fault. The critical George was classifying his cousin’s betrothed, not, however, without error. In the summer he had not made up his mind; in the autumn he had ranked her as a flirt; during the winter he took back this accusation and was somewhat at a loss. It was plain to him that Lucienne did not care a pin for any of the young men with whom she seemed to enjoy laughing and jesting, and this not because she was heartless—rather the contrary. It seemed to George that she was using their admiration and their friendship as temporary distractions. Somebody had her heart; how else account for the fits of dejection and silence which had been gradually creeping upon her through the autumn? Well, of course, she was affianced yet separated indefinitely from her betrothed. It was quite natural to set down these accesses of depression to regret for him. Sir William did so, sometimes rallying his “niece” openly on the subject; Madame de Château-Foix probably took them as not improper tributes to her son’s attractions. Amelia’s opinion George had never asked, for, except as a student of human nature, he was not interested in Lucienne, and had no desire indirectly to learn her secret. But it seemed to him that there was more than the pain of parted love in her eyes; it appeared more like unhappy love. That look alone, surprised once or twice by him when she was off her guard, obtained for Lucienne her release from the class to which she had been assigned, and caused the young man to regard her with a more lively attention than he himself quite realised.