Then Madame van Rycke went away, and the house seemed suddenly to become very still. Lenora was still in her bridal gown, which was of stiff white brocade, with very high starched collar and hard stomacher that cramped her movements and made her sides ache. Her hair had been combed away from her forehead and only a few unruly curls lay moist against her brow: her delicate skin rebelled against the conventional white and pink unguents which the careful fingers of a highly-trained waiting woman had laid upon her cheeks and lips, and the dark lines of a black pencil round her lashes could not add lustre to her luminous dark eyes which, despite fatigue, shone with marvellous brilliancy. She sat with hands folded before her, staring into the fire, and the flames in wanton frolic threw a golden glow upon her face and her gown and deep blue shadows all around her. Mark van Rycke--unseen by her--stood at the other end of the monumental hearth, one arm resting against the ledge, his head against his hand, so that his face was completely in shadow and she could not know that he was watching her. "You are tired, Madonna?" he asked after a little while, and she replied, pathetically, like a child about to cry: "Very tired, Messire." "It has been a long and trying day for you," he continued lightly. "I confess to being very tired myself, and as soon as Jeanne comes to wait on you, I would beg of you that I might take my leave." Then as she said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire in a listless manner, he added a little impatiently: "Jeanne will not be long; she attends upon my mother every night, but will be at your service directly. Can you put up with my company, Madonna, till she come?" "I am at your service, Messire," she rejoined stiffly, "if there is aught you wish to say to me." "How cold you are, sweetheart," he said good-humouredly. "It would seem as if we were still in the presence of that awe-inspiring duenna of yours: what was her name?--I forget--but by the Mass! I tell you, sweet, that she froze the very marrow in my bones ... and you were so formal in her presence too--brrrr!--it makes me shiver to think of those half-hours spent during the past week in such a freezing atmosphere!" He laughed--a quaint little laugh--half merry and half shy, and after an instant’s hesitation, he drew a low chair forward and sat down in front of the fire, close to her. Even then she did not turn to look at him. "Had it not been for your eyes, Madonna," he said softly, "I would have sworn that you were fashioned of marble."