She throws herself back among her vivid scarlet cushions, and makes a gesture to him to sit down beside her. Then, for the first time, he grows conscious of the presence of a third person, an old woman, hideous as Hecuba, who has seated herself close to the portière. “That’s the sheep-dog Shropshire spoke of,” he thinks. “Madame Perchard, you can go for a walk if you like. It is a charming day, and it will do you good. Stay! you might call at the costumier’s, and desire them to send the domino and mask for the _Bal de l’Opera_ to-morrow.” Madame Perchard, who looks as if she were well paid and well fed, smiles feebly and goes on her way, and the others are left _tête-à-tête_. If anyone had suggested two months ago that he would be seated in a dimly-lit room, side by side with a music-hall singer, Lord Delaval would probably have scouted the notion, and resented the speaker’s impertinence; but now it seems to him as if it is the most natural thing in the world that he should be here, at Marguerite Ange’s feet (mentally). He turns, and looks into her beautiful eyes long and steadfastly, without speaking, until she, who has grown hardened to the boldest stare, reddens a little. “_Eh bien?_” she says smiling, and her voice startles him out of a reverie. He is not only thinking how exquisitely lovely she is, but taxing his brain once more to find out _who_ she resembles. “I was dreaming, I believe, Mademoiselle Ange! Will you forgive me for coming here like this? My only excuse is that my heart was stronger than myself,” he says, in a low, passionate voice. “I forgive you!” she answers. “Ah! you don’t know what I felt the other night when I first saw you. You are very like someone I once knew--someone I loved as women only love once in their lives!--someone who is dead to me, and when I saw you I fainted.” So, this is why she fainted at sight of him--simply because he happens to resemble some sweetheart of other days. The idea is not flattering, and irritates him. Somehow, he had fancied that his own irresistible attractions had had an effect on her; but he cannot gaze on her and not soften at once. “Mademoiselle Ange, why do you live this life?” he says abruptly. “What harm is there in my life?” she asks. “It suits me!” “It suits no woman to forfeit respect for admiration--modest life for public display; but what right have I to talk to you so? To what good can I talk? For, _is it not a little too late_?” “You are very hard on me,” she falters. “Ah! I see you will _never_ like me--for you are prejudiced!” “What does it matter to you if I am prejudiced? After all, you could only care for my liking as you care for the liking of a dozen other men. Come--strangers almost though we are--tell me who is the most favoured amongst your worshippers! For, in spite of being prejudiced, I have felt a great interest in you ever since I first looked on your face.” She glances up at him, and the colour deepens on her cheek.