"Oh, of course, _marraine_." "We both need a change, and between ourselves, Julia has a little mission on foot." Tremont would be delighted to help Miss Redmond carry it out. Whom else should he ask? "By all means, any one you like," said his godmother diplomatically. "We want to sail the day after to-morrow." She felt safe, knowing that no worldly people would accept an invitation on twenty-four hours' notice. "So," the Duc de Tremont reflected, as he hung up the receiver, "Miss Redmond has a scheme, a mission! Young girls do not have schemes and missions in good French society." "Mademoiselle," he said to her, as they walked up and down on the deck in the pale sunset, in front of the chair of the Marquise d'Esclignac, "I never saw an ornament more becoming to a woman than the one you wear." "The ornament, Monsieur?" "On your sleeve. It is so beautiful. A string of pearls would not be more beautiful, although your pearls are lovely, too. Are all American girls Red Cross members?" "But of course not, Monsieur. Are all girls anywhere one thing?" "Yes," said the Duc de Tremont, "they are all charming, but there are gradations." "Do you think that we shall reach Algiers to-morrow, Monsieur?" "I hope not, Mademoiselle." Miss Redmond turned her fine eyes on him. "_You hope not?_" "I should like this voyage to last forever, Mademoiselle." "How ridiculous!" Her look was so frank that he laughed in spite of himself, and instead of following up the politeness, he asked: "Why do you think of Algiers as a field for nursing the sick, Mademoiselle?" "There has been quite a deputation of the Red Cross women lately going from Paris to the East." "But," said the young man, "there are poor in Tarascon, and sick, too. There is a great deal of poverty in Nice, and Paris is the nearest of all." "The American girls are very imaginative," said Julia Redmond. "We must have some romance in all we do." "I find the American girls very charming," said Tremont. "Do you know many, Monsieur?" "Only one," he said serenely. Miss Redmond changed the subject quickly and cleverly, and before he knew it, Tremont was telling her stories about his own military service, which had been made in Africa. He talked well and entertained them both, and Julia Redmond listened when he told her of the desert, of its charm and its desolation, and of its dangers. An hour passed. The Marquise d'Esclignac took an ante-prandial stroll, Mimi mincing at her heels. "_Ce pauvre_ Sabron!" said Tremont. "He has disappeared off the face of the earth. What a horrible thing it was, Mademoiselle! I knew him in Paris; I remember meeting him again the night before he left the Midi. He was a fine fellow with a career before him, his friends say." "What do you think has become of Monsieur de Sabron?"