She opened her lips; evidently she would have told him—had not some secondary thought arisen to check her confidence, whatever it might be. “Will you see me every day for one week? then I will tell you,” she said, imploringly. “Lady Forwood said you would be my good friend. Be my good friend, monsieur, and do this!” It was an embarrassing position; and although Hugh was deeply moved by the girl’s pathetic tone of entreaty, by this almost desperate appeal to him—for that was really what it seemed to be,—he wondered what was behind this strange request. Was Mercedes in the power of one of those two men—the prince and the count,—and unconsciously aiding in some bet or frivolous conspiracy? Or was she herself whimsical and capricious—“hysterical”? No! Those last ideas were treason. Having harboured them for an instant brought back his instinctive faith in the simple young creature. “I would do what you ask, but really it is not possible, princess,” he said, gently, respectfully. Then he explained how his time was occupied, and gave her a list, jotted down hastily upon a leaf torn out of his pocket-book, of the engagements for the next few days, which could not be cancelled. She took the list and went over it carefully, in a practical manner, quite unlike that of a hysterical woman. “I see,” she said. “But, monsieur, the evenings? There is nothing for the evenings.” Hugh told her that his evenings were sacred to his son. “I am all that he has,” he said, “both mother and father. His mother died when he was born.” She asked his age, and Hugh told her. “Nineteen!” she said, with a little laugh of surprise. “How funny! That is my age. But your son, when is he nineteen? You say, a few days ago? Why, he is older than I am, monsieur? You could be my father.” “Certainly,” said Hugh, relieved, somehow, of part of the uneasy sensation excited by the situation by this suggestion. “But I confess I thought you older.” “I was eighteen last March,” she said, gravely. “And my friend, Lady Forwood, was twenty-four.” Eighteen—and a wife! Hugh looked pityingly at her. It seemed to him that parents who could wed a child of seventeen to a young _roué_ of twenty-six were almost criminal in their rashness—or worse than rashness. “But, your son, he would like to go out?” said the princess. “Monsieur, you and he, can you not come sometimes to Lady Forwood—to Lady Boisville? Then I could see you.” “Impossible,” said Hugh, suddenly rising. This curious interview had lasted long enough. “You will _not_?” She sat back on the settee, and to his astonishment, a deathlike pallor spread over her face. A shrunken look aged her sweet youthful features, her eyes seemed to harden and recede beneath her dark eyebrows. His conscience smote him. “I will try and see you again soon,” he said, lamely.