“Papa? Nonsense! He never dreamt of caring for the ermines’ health. Besides, they are old enough to look after themselves. They are pretty, though!” she added, pointing to the heraldic ermines of Brittany embroidered in silver relief all over the pale satin of walls and hangings. “Pretty and antique,” she concluded, meditatively. “Like most of your ideas,” he stated, leaning back and contemplating the intenseness of the hortensias. She glanced at him between half-closed lashes, an imperceptible frown wrinkling her eyebrows. “You find me too old-fashioned?” she questioned, drumming softly on the lid of the cigarette-box with the fingers of her left hand. “N-no--yes. I don’t know; and, moreover, it’s none of my business.” “None of your--business?” She stared. “None of your--” Her fingers abruptly ceased drumming, and she turned toward him a face of real bewilderment. “Aren’t we friends--relatives?” He stirred uneasily, his eyes fixed on the carpet, as if desirous of counting the convolutions of its intricate pattern. “Friends? Why, certainly friends! Of course ... we are friends! But what’s that got to do with it? You have other friends, and so--so have I, of course.” Marguerite’s little ears were getting pink. What ailed the man, anyhow? Quick-tempered as she was soft-hearted, she felt oddly angry all at once. “Other friends!” she exclaimed. “Friends like me? You mean to tell me that you have lots of friends like me?” “Well,” Basil murmured, lamely, “not precisely like you. Nobody’s quite like you, but, nevertheless....” “But--nothing at all!” she cried, truculently. “What has come over you lately, Basil Palitzin? You did not use to pose and posture in the old days. You were such a good comrade, such a trump. Tell me, _what--is--the--matter--with--you_?” Again Basil twisted as if on pins and needles, twice he clasped and unclasped his hands, and the string of derogatory epithets he inwardly applied to himself would have made a trooper blush. “You women are incredible,” he attempted to explain. “Young, old, or very young, you are all the same with your extraordinary imaginings. What _should_ be the matter with me, pray? Do you notice any signs of incipient decrepitude?” “I notice,” Marguerite cut in, “that you are changed, and in no way to your advantage, _Cousin_ Basil. Once you used to be pleased at my liking you so much, but now you have become as repellant as possible. You pull faces a yard long; you are always in a bad humor, and if it were not so preposterous I would almost begin to think that you do not care for us any more, and that you have made up your mind to see as little of us as you decently can.” “Oh, Innocence!” Basil thought, sadly. “Thank God she does not know what tortures she puts me through!” Aloud he said: “You are talking rank heresy, my dear Marguerite. Your father and--yourself are among those I am most attached to--you can never doubt that!”