“What? You mean _who_, I suppose. She is the most beautiful girl in the world--an English ‘professional beauty,’ they say. She was at the Sacré-Cœur with me, and she loved me--yes, she loved me, though she played me a mean trick once; but it wasn’t her fault, poor dear! I’ve never seen her since. And just imagine, her ogres of uncle and aunt have condescended to let her spend a month with us here--a whole month--thirty days--no, thirty-one, as this is the last day of June.” “This promises to be interesting,” Basil remarked. “A gloriously beautiful maiden oppressed by avuncular ogres, and coming all the way from perfidious Albion to charm the natives of ancient Armorica! It sounds very well, when one comes to think of it!” The “Gamin,” who had pulled from the pocket of her white serge frock a handful of hazelnuts, and was joyously cracking them one after another between her short white teeth, laughed and nearly choked herself. “You have,” she asserted, as soon as she could speak, “a funny way of expressing yourself, Cousin Basil. Why don’t you add that a handsome Prince Charming came from much farther off yet, to do likewise?” “Again? _Vous y tenez décidément, ma cousine!_ Handsome is as handsome does, you know, and as yet I am not conscious of having behaved in any very remarkable way since my arrival!” Marguerite raised her shoulders to the level of her ears, threw a handful of nut-shells in the bronze waste-paper holder at her side, and jumped from her lofty seat. “It must be nearly eleven,” she cried in sudden alarm. “We’ll miss it all if we don’t go down-stairs now, at once. Come quick.” “Miss what?” the impassive Prince demanded, slowly rising from the deep arm-chair where he had established himself. But she had already glissaded to the head of the stairs, and it took all he could accomplish with his long legs to overtake her before she had quite succeeded in breaking her pretty nails, in endeavoring to open one of the tall windows giving on the north terrace. “Leave that to me. The wind is straight against it. Wait, won’t you, _please_?” he pleaded, his hand over both of hers, for she was still struggling manfully with the complicated fastening. “I’m very strong,” she panted. “I’ve done it lots of times.” Evidently she was very strong, for the window suddenly gave way and, had it not been for Basil’s weight, would have knocked her flat. But little did she care for such slight contretemps. With a ringing war-whoop she raced out, her hair--instantly blown from its restraining combs by the whistling blast--streaming in clouds behind her, her skirts flying back from her slim ankles, and danced wildly toward the carven parapet.