There was a sting in that simple and conventional reply. Gilbert took no notice, and pulling forward a chair opened his letter and began to run through it. But in half a minute he was looking instead at his cousin, who, his elbows on his knees, was leaning forward staring into the fire. Was it fancy that there was something in the set of his jaw that had not been visible six months ago, a line about the mouth which spelt . . . what? The Marquis’ scrutiny of the profile presented to him was cut short, however, by Louis suddenly becoming aware of it. “What are you looking at me for?” he demanded. “Is not the paper all right?” “I don’t know,” said Château-Foix. “I was looking at you because—well, I want to speak to you about something else.” Whatever the Vicomte may have thought of this exordium he did not betray. He kicked the smouldering log on the hearth with his spurred heel and sank back in his chair. “Very well,” he replied indifferently; “I am ready.” Gilbert deliberately folded up the letter, put it in his pocket, and rose. “I should like,” he said, in a steady voice of ice, “to take back most of the things that I said to you the other day at the ford. I was . . . mistaken. I believe now that you did your best, that you had no intention of acting treacherously. The fault was mine for putting you in such a position.” He paused for a second; Louis had not stirred. “You have assured me that Lucienne does not return your affection; I appreciate your motive in the assurance, but I know that it is not true. And if we come out of this alive I do not, therefore, intend to press my claim. . . . That is all I have to say.” He turned and went to the table. The stupor which had held Louis enmeshed during this short speech relaxed its hold. He sprang up. “Gilbert . . . God in heaven! You don’t mean it—I can’t——” “Oh yes, you can,” replied the Marquis coolly, taking up his cloak. “She is yours already in spirit; you know that.” And he went towards the door. But Louis, springing after him, caught him by the arm. “Gilbert . . . for God’s sake, don’t go like that . . . You can’t mean it! You——” Somehow, without actually shaking him off, Gilbert succeeded in disengaging himself. “Surely,” he said bitingly, “you are not usually so dull. I cannot stay here all evening to repeat the same thing. Lucienne is yours—if she will have you. Is not that plain enough?” Their eyes met. Then something more like horror than any other emotion dawned in the Vicomte’s, and with a catch of the breath he recoiled a little. The Marquis went quickly out and shut the door behind him. * * * * * *