She is thinking of him now under the arching elms. Athwart their fluttering leaves she can see his blond aristocratic face, and she longs to be back to hear his voice, the languid accents of which are harmony to her ears. “Shall I go in now and say you prefer dreaming away the hours here to _cotelettes soubise_ and cold chicken?” she asks, breaking in rather sharply on the long silence which has fallen, and during which she sees plainly enough that poor little love-sick Zai has entirely forgotten her proximity even. She is wonderfully practical is Gabrielle Beranger, a child of the south, for her maternal ancestors were pure Marseillaise. She is brimful of passion, but the passion is sufficiently material to permit of love of Lord Delaval and love of the flesh pots to go hand-in-hand, and it occurs to her at this moment, in the midst of her reverie under the elms, that the _cotelettes soubise_ and _Cailles à point d’asperges_ do not improve by growing cold. “I am not day-dreaming, Gabrielle. Cannot one be allowed to think, even, without being called to account for it?” Zai asks wearily. “Not when the thoughts are, to say the least, very foolish ones. When the subject of them is one Carlton Conway, _jeune amoureux_ at the Bagatelle, and very much the reverse of one of Lady Beranger’s pet eligibles.” A swift colour like a deep rose pink sweeps over Zai’s face, a colour that creeps up to the roots of her ruddy chestnut hair, and dyes her fair lily-like throat. The name Gabrielle whispers has a magical charm about it, for besides the blush, it evokes the softest of love-lights into Zai’s grey eyes. “I will go in with you if you like,” she says in a voice that sounds quite meek and deprecatory, and Gabrielle, as she glances at her, feels sorry that her careless words should hurt this loving, tender heart. If there is a soft spot in her heart for one of her own sex it is for this step-sister of hers. Trixy she hates, and Baby she despises, but Zai, although like the others, born and bred in Belgravia, is of quite another mould. But though Gabrielle is fond of Zai, she will not hesitate to plunge the dagger (metaphorically) into her heart if the time should come when such would serve her own purposes. “I didn’t mean to chaff or worry just now, Zai,” she says quite softly, with a humility that is quite foreign to her, “but you know you wear your heart so much on your sleeve, child, that no wonder daws will peck.” Zai’s lids droop, and her lips twitch as if fully aware of her shortcomings. She is desperately in love, and has a simple nature in spite of Belgravia’s training, and she is much too loyal to dream of denying the existence of a love that is part and parcel of her nature. Her passion for Carl Conway is like the air of Heaven to her, invisible, intangible, but yet it encircles her soul, and is just the Alpha and Omega of everything.