“Then, as God sees me,” said Louis solemnly, “you have not the slightest shadow of a foundation for your suspicion. If I were dying at this moment I could not say otherwise. I am no better than other men—I have never pretended to it—but _that_ . . . how could you think it for a moment!” Gilbert’s long breath of relief was audible, but it was improbable that the Vicomte heard it, for he had sunk down again upon the log and buried his face in his hands. “Now tell me,” said Gilbert remorselessly, “exactly what happened.” In the silence that ensued the thrush broke into louder song. “I am waiting,” said the Marquis again. “I have believed what you have just told me. And the rest, you will concede, I have a right to know.” Louis lifted his head. “I suppose you have,” he said slowly, looking straight in front of him at the dancing, singing water. “But there is not very much to tell you. I do not know how it was that Lucienne came to be—how I came to love her, or when it began. These last two years perhaps, if you insist on knowing dates; but it came on me so gradually that I did not know it myself. Then, a year ago last January, not intending to do so, and aware all the time that it was hopeless——” “What do you mean by hopeless?” demanded the Marquis sharply. “I mean that I knew quite well that she did not care for me, and never would.” “Liar!” ejaculated Gilbert under his breath. Aloud he said: “Well, go on. What happened last January year?” “I lost my head, told her I loved her, and implored her to marry me. I do not want to defend myself, but—though I suppose you will not believe me—it was in a moment of madness. I recognised that almost at once.” “And then?” “Need you ask? Lucienne answered—as you can imagine. . . . I was ashamed of myself. I—I asked her pardon, and after that, till your coming to Paris, we had scarcely met. I suppose that since that unfortunate episode in January I have been less to her, if possible, than before, though, if I understood you rightly, she was good enough to take an interest in my fate. . . . Now you know why I did not want to take her to England. That is all. And—as you cannot imagine that it is pleasant for me to tell you this—you must know that you should never have had it out of me at all if it were not for your monstrous suspicions.” And he sent his cousin a look composed enough, and charged with a defiance difficult to gauge.