Laurence rose with a great rustle of her flowing silks, and stood dry-lipped before him. She made an evident effort to speak, but mortification and rage forbade this. Her eyes were flashing like yellow zircons, and he looked at her in some apprehension, though the firm set of his mouth did not relax. Then without warning she swayed forward, seized his hand in both her own, as if to support herself, and, falling against his shoulder, burst into a passion of sobs. “Well, that’s the _bouquet_!” thought the irrepressible Régis, supporting her with no good will--this gay butterfly was in a virtuous mood! Besides, she was emphatically not his style, as he had remarked five years ago; also--under stress of weather, as it were--her methods were becoming somewhat too crude for this _rafiné_, used to more delicate behavior on the part of the women he admired. “You--you--won’t be convinced!” she sobbed, clutching the lapel of his coat. “You are a--h--h--harsh man--Régis!” There was great tenderness in the way she pronounced his name. With difficulty he managed to unclasp the slender fingers, and, holding her at a distance by a gentle pressure on the wrists, he looked full at her--this time with an imperceptible smile. “You are a very pretty woman, _Princess_, but do not waste your best weapons upon so negligible a person as myself--I am fire-proof.” A bright spot of color sprang into each of her pale cheeks--which, by the way, showed no trace of tears. Her white teeth clicked together and she drew back violently. “You insult me, Monsieur de Plenhöel,” she cried. “First you accuse me of having a lover, and now you infer that I wish to win you, too!” Once more Régis bowed. “Madame,” he said, smiling more openly, “I am not a coxcomb, but I realize that all means are fair in war, so I exonerate you of any design save that of self-protection.” Whereupon he slipped her hand under his arm, drew her to the door of the main hall, and called François. In a few moments more he had solicitously wrapped her in her long cloak, and was escorting her to her waiting brougham before she could find a word to say. “A prolonged _tête-à-tête_ would offer no inducements to either of us now,” she said at last, in a wonderfully collected voice, “so do not come with me; but be assured that we shall meet again and that I shall know how to thank you for this evening’s hospitality.” “_Mille grâces, madame! Une hospitalité tout à fait Écossaise!_” he murmured, handing her into her carriage, and as she drove off she could see him, still bowing, on the last of the granite steps. Behind him the state antechamber and staircase blazed with light, which, fortunately, prevented her from seeing the expression of his face.