“When I came to Plenhöel, and--met you--he showed me at once that he admired me. I might have married him instead of you had I wished it, and become the stepmother of your adored ‘Gamin.’” She gave a wicked crack of laughter, for she saw the swift spasm that contracted his features as she pronounced the nickname of Marguerite; but this was gone in a flash, and Basil was listening calmly and collectedly again. “Yes,” she hastily resumed, “I could have been the Marquise de Plenhöel--not a thing to be despised when one comes to think of it! Nor is this quite all, for when I was in Paris I had to defend myself against quite a different sort of address from him. Oh! you will pretend not to believe that, either; but one night I was forced to run away from the Hôtel de Plenhöel, after a scene with him. He snatched me up in his arms; he--” Basil straightened himself mechanically, which made him seem of a sudden absolutely gigantic. “Do you,” he said, “really expect me to accept this paltry explanation as the truth?” he asked. She moved restlessly, but her flaming eyes did not flinch. “You will continue to hold him innocent, I suppose,” she said, bitterly. “Everybody, it seems, is innocent excepting me!” “Not everybody!” She drooped for a second beneath the taunt, but soon went on, as if only spurred to new effort. “Yet he is well known, your chivalrous Régis, as quite the contrary of a woman-hater--very much the contrary! You said that to me yourself long ago. A Don Juan, you called him, laughing. Well, what is there so strange about his casting his handkerchief in my direction?” She paused, panting a little. “You use most befitting expressions,” Basil replied, “but you forget that Régis and I were boys together, and that I know him to be as incapable of making love--it is my turn to express regret for a somewhat drastic plainness of speech--to a young girl intrusted to his care, as of repeating the offense to my wife. I would refute the testimony of my own eyes where he is in question.” “They are, as a matter of fact, pretty gullible sometimes--your own eyes!” she said, insolently, utterly unable to resist the temptation of hitting back; but the dull flush on his face frightened her into silence. “My eyes are, as you very justly remark,” he acquiesced, “or, rather, they have been, pretty dull. I think, however, that you have effected a perfect cure, and that as an oculist you stand unrivaled. But do let us understand each other, once, and for all time to come.” “I ask no better,” she retorted, deceived by his surface calm.