"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle," said John Turner, placidly, "and I am not afraid. I will make you still more angry." He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand, looking out to sea--his round face puckered with thought. "Mademoiselle Lucille," he said, slowly, "I have known some men and quite a number of women who have sacrificed their happiness to their pride. I have known them late in life, when the result had to be lived through. They were not good company. If pride or love must go overboard, Mademoiselle, throw pride." Chapter XXIV An Explanation "La discretion defend de questionner, la delicatesse defend meme de deviner." We were a quiet party that evening, Madame having decided to ask no one to meet us. It was like a piece of the old Paris life, for all had met for better or worse in that city, and spoke the language of the once brilliant capital. Madame insisted that I should take the head of the table, she herself occupying a chair at the foot, which had remained vacant as long as I could remember. So I sat for the first time in the seat of my ancestors, whence my father had issued his choleric mandates, only, I fear, to be answered as hotly. "You are quiet, Monsieur," said Lucille, who sat at my right hand, and I thought her glance searched my face in a way that was new. "Say he is dull," put in Alphonse, whose gaiety was at high-water mark. "_Ce cher_ Dick--he is naturally so." And he laughed at me with his old look of affection. "Mademoiselle means that I am duller than usual," I suggested. "No," said Lucille, "I meant what I said." "As always?" inquired Alphonse, in a low voice aside. "As always," she answered, gravely. And I think she only spoke the truth. We did not sit long over our wine, and John Turner reserved his cigar until a later opportunity. "I'll play you a game of billiards," he said, looking at me. In the drawing-room we found Lucille already; at the piano. "I have some new songs," she said, "from the Basque country. I wonder if you will prefer them to the old." I was crossing the room towards Madame, and a silence made me pause and look towards the piano. Lucille was addressing me--and no doubt I was clumsy enough to betray my surprise. "I think I shall prefer the old ones, Mademoiselle," I answered. She was fingering the pages carelessly, and Alphonse, who was always quick at such matters, stepped forward. "As the songs are new the pages will require turning." "Thank you," answered Lucille, rather coldly as I thought, and Madame looked at me with a queer expression of impatience, as if I had done something amiss. She took up her book and presently closed her eyes. John Turner did the same, and I, remembering that he was a heavy breather, went up to him. "I am ready to beat you at billiards," I said. Lucille and Alphonse were so much engaged at the piano as to be apparently oblivious to our departure. I suppose that they were grateful to us in their hearts for going.