“A dangerous horse! Didn’t I say so? Why, you are quite pale!” scolded Basil, with astounding finesse, as for the second time “Narses” was forced back to his post. “But you manage him very cleverly,” he added. “As I was saying, I will be absent long.” Marguerite probably did not judge it worth her while to comment upon this reiteration, and Basil, looking straight before him, went on: “I want to ask you whether you were serious when you spoke to your father about keeping my--I mean Piotr--with you for a while.” “I endeavor to be always serious when dealing with family questions, _mon cousin_,” she replied. “Of course it is a sacrifice on your part, and it will be a--what shall I say?--an intolerable nuisance for Régis; but there’s no accounting for both your generosities.” Marguerite, flicking a tiny bramble from her habit, shrugged her shoulders. “Suppose you abandon these eloquent sentences for the time being?” she proposed. “There’s nobody under the furniture--the bushes, I mean--and if it is for me alone that you are going to such oratorical expense, I will excuse plain and unadorned speech.” “What ails her?” thought Basil. “I’ve never seen her like this!” for he genuinely did not understand. “Very well then,” he resumed. “You wish to keep the boy?” “Yes,” she said, simply. “Allowing Garrassime to stay near him and--forgive me--myself to defray all their joint expenses. It is a matter of pride with me.” “Of all the ungracious bundles of thorns I have ever encountered--” she commenced, but he would not let her speak. “Permit me,” he interrupted. “I do not mean to be ungracious-- ungrateful--you must know that! I am so deeply touched, on the contrary, by--” His voice altered all of a sudden, and Marguerite felt a lump rise in her throat. They had reached what is called there an _étoile des bois_, otherwise a wide grassy spot where five roads meet in a star-shaped clearing, and Basil jerked “The Cid” to a stand. “If you don’t mind,” he said, still a little hoarsely, “we could dismount and sit down here while Ireland waters the beasts.” For answer she slipped off “Narses” in her customary unexpected way, and stood by his head, stroking him; the rascal allowing her to rub his velvet nose with carefully disguised contentment. Ireland having trotted up and assumed charge of the horses--it was one of “Narses’s” peculiarities that he was sometimes approachable by a dismounted well-wisher, and, moreover, he did not hate Ireland a tenth part as much as he did his own grooms and stablemen--Basil and Marguerite were at liberty to seek a comfortable seat on a fallen tree-trunk. “I wanted to say this to you, but lacked the courage to do so,” he shamefacedly admitted, his expression quite changed. “Also, something else, if you will only have patience.”