“Well!” said Basil at last. “Well, this is a pretty state of things! Is he often like that, Marguerite? I never knew--my poor little girl!” With difficulty she prevented her voice from trembling. “No; very rarely,” she said, shortly. “Then what made him burst out like that? But here, for pity’s sake, sit down, Marguerite. This _is_ pleasant for you!” “No! Not if you will only not interfere,” she faltered. “I couldn’t bear to see you two _aux-prises_. It was my fault. I tried to--to prepare him for what is--what is coming, that’s all.” She had gone back to her seat in the window and glanced imploringly up at him. Quickly he joined her and, bending before her, took her little icy hands in one of his. “I beg your pardon from my heart. I beg your pardon, Marguerite,” he said, penitently. “You should not have had to suffer this!” “My poor boy!” she tremulously murmured. “It is from you I should have wished to keep it concealed. He is such a fine little chap! He can’t help what he does now and then, and punishment would only make it worse. I know it. I am convinced that force would be folly to attempt. Don’t you ever try it!” Touched by her courage and exceeding generosity he stared at her. “I believe from my soul you are more than half an angel,” he said. “I shall do what you say, whatever happens--I give you my word on it; but still he should be made to understand what he does. What may not one of these attacks bring about?” “He will get out of it when he grows older,” she pleaded. “He is so very manly that one easily forgets what a baby he is yet.” “My God!” Basil was thinking, “what obscure inheritance is this the result of?” And suddenly the image of Laurence flashed before him, Laurence beautiful and vicious, cankered inwardly like a fruit, splendid to the eye only. He took a couple of turns up and down before speaking again. “It is jealousy, then?” he said at length, stopping in front of her. “Yes,” she admitted, “jealousy of me.” “Then,” Basil continued, “why isn’t he jealous of my love for you, my presence near you?” “He just told me,” she said, with the ghost of a smile lurking at the corners of her rosy mouth--for she had already recovered her delicate color--“that I couldn’t possibly love a grown-up gentleman like you as I did him--my little Piotr.” Basil could not help laughing. “That’s ingenious!” he conceded; “very ingenious and plausible--and fortunate, too! What would we do if he had extended these kindly sentiments to me?” “I don’t know. Sufficient unto the hour is the wonderment thereof,” she replied, delighted to find that he was not disposed to take the affair too tragically. “A few weeks ago he wanted to fight a duel with _Boustifaille_, his ex-_canot_ lad, when he came to pay his respects on his return from the Banks, because I was imprudent enough to admire the finely bronzed appearance of the interesting _Terre-neuvas_.”