“I do not want much,” Régis said, bending a little toward her and emphasizing each word by a gentle tap of his fingers on the inlaid table-top. “I am not your judge, nor do I desire to persecute you. Of that rest assured.” He paused, and in the intense silence that followed, a shower of rose-petals dropping to the floor was almost painfully audible. “If this is the case, what do you demand of me?” she murmured, her head drooping so that he could see the artificial waving of her hair rising from her white neck to the circlet of her starred diadem. “First of all, that you should never see Marguerite again, excepting in public and when it absolutely cannot be avoided,” he said, with a sort of repressed intensity that made her wince. “Secondly, that during your stay away from your husband you should, as far as possible, avoid us. The rest is with you. You know very well that I will not betray what I have discovered--to my amazement and regret. To preach is just as far from my mind and character. But remember; if ever Basil learns that you have stepped down from the pedestal upon which he placed you, he will be unmerciful.” “But”--she struggled--“there is nothing--I have done nothing--to deserve his anger! Your ‘Madonna’ is in no danger from me. I am an honest woman. I swear it! I swear it! I have never seen Captain Moray since my marriage before to-night.” She was white as a sheet now, and Régis remained silent. Where was the use of quoting her own words to her--“_at last--at last--after a whole long year!_” Did she even remember them in her terror and confusion? He knew with the intuitive certainty of a squire of dames that she was not the sort to entertain a platonic affection--he had known that long before. She was defending herself as best she could, according to her limitations, and all the manhood in him revolted against prolonging the scene. “You are upset,” he said, with less severity of tone, though his irritation had not diminished. “Supposing we let the matter drop now? I will, if you permit me, take you home. I have told you what I expect of you. Let it stop at that.” Once again he became the polished man of the world, his mask admirably reattached, and as he spoke he bowed deferentially. For a moment she did not appear to have heard him. Her attitude was one miserable alluring droop, and from its nest of laces and _frou-frous_ one exquisitely shod foot peeped out among the fallen rose-petals on the floor. The pose was clever. “Why do you dislike me--so--so--much?” she murmured, gazing fixedly downward at her little jeweled slipper, timidly busy amid the ruin of the roses. Régis glanced at this amusing by-play and carefully denied himself the luxury of a smile. “I said nothing of the sort,” he politely countered. “But it is getting very late, _Princess_.” He employed the title with deliberate bad taste. “May I have your carriage called?”