It was already the 23rd of December, and an afternoon so dark that Amelia had abandoned her needlework, and, obedient to Lucienne’s request that lamps should not yet be called for, was sitting with her hands in her lap, a posture which had been her companion’s for some time. “I wonder what they are doing just at this moment at Chantemerle,” came meditatively from Mademoiselle d’Aucourt through the firelit dusk. “Do you know, Lucy,” said Amelia, “I was just wondering the same thing. Poor Cousin Gilbert is not, I fear, preparing as we are for festivities.” “I had a letter from him two or three days ago,” remarked Lucienne rather listlessly. “There was not much news in it. He says that he does not know what is going to happen.” “He is not alone there, is he?” enquired Amelia. “M. de Saint-Ermay is with him?” “Yes,” answered Lucienne in a hard little voice. “At least I suppose so.” She bit her lips at the remembrance of how she had hastened through the letter for the mere mention of Louis’ name, and had found none. “And then there is always M. des Graves.” “Ah, yes,” returned the English girl, “I am always meaning to ask you about M. des Graves, when I hear you and Aunt Felicity talking about him. What is he like?” Lucienne sat up in her chair. “He is the best person in the world. He understands everybody. You can guess that when you know how fond two such different people as Gilbert and Louis are of him. And I too love him,” she added warmly. “Whom does Miss Lucy love?” enquired a hearty a voice at the door. “I hope she was declaring her passion for her old uncle, but I am afraid it is improbable.” “It was for some one older than you, mon oncle,” retorted Lucienne, as three male forms advanced into the twilight. “Is that Mr Trenchard?” asked Amelia, getting up from her chair. “It is,” replied that gentleman, bowing, while Sir William cried: “Why the deuce you girls sit in the dark like this I can’t conceive!” “Well, you might guess why, papa, from what you overheard,” returned his daughter. “But now that you are here I will ring for lights.” “Mr Trenchard has come,” announced the Squire, when the lamps were brought, “to ask you ladies a question. I don’t know what it is, except that it is vastly important. Is it a secret, Trenchard?” “Not at all,” responded the young man. “I merely wished to enquire of Miss Ashley and Mademoiselle d’Aucourt the colour of the respective gowns with which they intend to dazzle our eyes to-morrow night, and whether——” “Oh, by Gad!” interrupted Sir William, “to remain is indiscreet. Secrets of the toilet! I’m off. Come, George.” “No,” said his son. “I am going to stay,” and he sauntered to a chair and sat down. “Papa, do be quiet!” urged Amelia. “Do let us all be seated, and Mr Trenchard can deliver himself of his message in comfort.”