Some answer was probably required of her, so she said: “It seems strange that you should have English cousins.” The Marquis nodded, but was not diverted into enlarging on this relationship, so perhaps he had not expected a remark. He went on to talk a little of the journey, of English habits, of Suffolk, and she could not guess, except that his manner was somehow indefinably different, that, as he described Sir William Ashley’s avenue, he saw himself riding up it to claim her. Yet his thought was almost audible in his voice as he said: “I shall come over myself very soon. It may be that we shall have to be married in England, but you must try not to mind that.” Lucienne's hand was her own again now, and she looked down at his ring as she twisted it on her finger. “I shall not mind,” she said at length. “And until that time,” went on Gilbert in a low voice she had never heard before, “there will no day pass in which I shall not think of you and long for you.” There had been growing in Lucienne’s heart, even in the midst of her apathy, a horrible fear lest, by reason of that very apathy (of which she was fully conscious) she might awaken in Gilbert some suspicion of the truth. She might be compromising Louis. For Louis’ sake—she could not have done it else—she was quickened to a great effort, and stretching out her hand, said with all the warmth of which she was capable, and with a smile to boot: “I shall be waiting for you when you come.” Château-Foix put a long kiss on the little hand. “You are as brave as I knew you would be. God grant that day may not be far off.” Rather than discuss that question and run the risk of failing in responsiveness, she said: “Is it true that you are going back to Chantemerle at once?” “I am going back directly you are out of Paris,” answered Gilbert, looking at her and thinking how prettily the hair grew on her forehead. “And Louis with you, I suppose?” The question struck at him like the ache of a recurrent pain. He had actually forgotten for the moment the black cloud on his heart. He must have hesitated for the fraction of a second, for he heard Lucienne say quickly and almost reproachfully: “You are not going to leave him behind in Paris, surely, Gilbert? You know how reckless he is, and that if any one has influence with him it is you!” A somewhat grim smile flickered over the Marquis’ face at this testimony. “Yes,” he said, trusting that this time he was not betraying hesitation, “Louis must come with me.” And, fearing further questions, he rose to take his leave. He stood towering up above Lucienne, and once again he held out his arms to her. And Lucienne got up and came to him, but she seemed to shrink into nothing in his embrace, and to try to hide her face from him. Then he attempted to comfort her, blaming himself for having made the parting harder for her.