The Vicomte turned. “Could you not choose a better subject of mirth, gentlemen?” he asked, in somewhat chilling tones. “I confess that I do not find the present one amusing, and I must invite you to remember that the gentleman who has just left us is my cousin, and the head of my house.” His voice rang warningly, and those around him fell instantly into laughing apology. But from the outskirts of the group the late partner of the Knight of Saint Louis, lounging forward from the hearth, saw fit to cap the young man’s last remark. “And loyalty is, alas, too rare a virtue nowadays that we should discourage it,” he said, in drawling tones which might or might not have spelt intentional insolence. A momentary gleam was visible in Louis de Saint-Ermay’s eyes, and he seemed about to reply, but in the end merely bit his lip and turned away. M. de Bercy, however, seemed loth to let the subject drop. “You have my deep sympathy, Vicomte,” he pursued softly. “These unexpected visits play the deuce with one’s arrangements . . . do they not?” Louis faced round quickly. “What the devil do you mean?” “Nothing, I assure you, my dear Vicomte,” replied the other, still with his crooked smile. “Only that the visits of our mentors—when unexpected—are a trifle irritating. We have all felt the same.” “M. de Bercy’s sympathy does him credit,” said D’Aubeville drily. “Come with me, Louis; I have a word for your private ear.” “In a moment,” said his friend. “Let me first understand why I am thus honoured by M. de Bercy’s compassion. I am not aware of any arrangement with which my cousin’s visit will interfere.” His glance across the circle was a challenge. “I am relieved to hear it,” returned De Bercy lightly. “Has any one a desire for piquet?” “Stop, if you please!” cried Saint-Ermay. “I have a desire for an explanation of some sort. Otherwise I must take the liberty of calling your observation decidedly impertinent.” The young man’s voice and look were suggestive of a cold and growing anger. Octave de Périgny looked at him for a moment, and then, coming up to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Let the fool alone,” he whispered. “He thinks your cousin has stopped you from going to our fair hostess to-night.” “I know,” said the Vicomte shortly, and paid no further heed. Ruffled by his interview with Château-Foix, irritated by De Bercy’s reference to its supposed result, and not unconscious of the attempts which were being made to turn the conversation, he had lost for the moment his naturally sweet temper and his indolence. He waited frowning for an answer. De Bercy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, my dear Saint-Ermay,” he exclaimed, “in your heart of hearts you know that my remark was much to the point. However, let us not insist upon a delicate subject. Consider my words unsaid.” “On the contrary,” said the Vicomte, “I insist upon knowing what you mean by these hints.” The other hesitated. “And if I refuse to tell you?”