His hand was on the etched and graven latch, the primeval and archaic _loquet_ of the door, that was still thought sufficient to guard the treasures within when the family was there. The banner flapping in the eternal sea-breeze above the keep was guard enough for all purposes then. “As you will,” said the “Gamin.” “_Et que dieu vous protége, mon cousin!_” and she turned and went her way. From the greater portion of the days that followed, and from all the conferences _à deux, à trois, et à quatre_ which took up so many hours, Marguerite naturally was absent. She had known it would be thus, and was resigned beforehand to her isolation, but what she had not counted upon was the sudden removal of Piotr and Garrassime to far-off Plenhöel without the boy having seen his father. Why they hadn’t sent her off also she could not imagine, for what use was she, excepting at meal-times, when she was expected to fill her place as usual? She missed Piotr very much. Basil she hardly saw. Tatiana and Jean and her own father had evidently never been so busy in their lives. Poor “Antinoüs” had said to her: “It’s a bad moment to pass, _mon Chevalier_. Keep a stiff upper lip! Basil is going to convey his--er--relic to Russia. _Noblesse-oblige_ you know--and then you and I, my precious, will take flight too and rebegin our good little comfortable life once more.” “But what of Piotr?” she had asked. “Can’t we keep him with us, Papa? I cannot imagine why Basil appears to push him purposely out of his way. The de Salvières have their own cares, their own duties and interests, but we, Papa, in our _ménage de vieux garçons_ have nothing but our two selfish selves to think of. Can’t we keep him, Papa, until Basil awakes? Can’t we really, _please, please_!” She had put up her hands like good Sir Hugh Calverley of Froissart fame, and had looked so much more effective, or rather affecting, than that dauntless knight could ever have done, that Régis had inwardly surrendered--he was so sorry for his _Chevalier_--although outwardly he had pooh-poohed the proposal. Now, as the period of discussion drew to a close, Marguerite began to feel the influence of a factor she had hitherto ignored absolutely--namely, the presence of those torturers called nerves, the gain and livelihood of sapient specialists the world over, who grope among them, fumbling with forces of which they are as truly ignorant as are the greatest physicists of the real potency or impotency of electricity. Her whole being was stretched on the rack of incertitude, of ceaseless questionings of the future; and this is a bad state of affairs. “What is going to happen next?” The wind waltzing along the cliffs sang it to its own gyrations, the great trees of the park, courtesying and bowing to a passing squall, echoed it; the very rustle of her silk and batiste pillow in the depth of the night murmured it slyly in her ear as she settled herself to try and sleep.