“_Qu’est-ce qu’elle a cette cruche?_” he whispered to his daughter as they settled themselves in the victoria with Piotr enthroned between them; then, noticing the boy’s observant eye, he continued in Spanish--a language they were both fond of using: “No wonder Basil writes so mournfully! Poor devil! Did you ever see such insufferable airs as that girl thinks it necessary to put on?” Marguerite gave him a supremely roguish glance, imperceptibly raised one shoulder, and resumed her contemplation of the “little messenger from afar,” whose presence near her was such a pleasure, and who, to give him his due, was doing everything in his unconscious power to get himself adored in short order. She was not, however, at the end of her surprises, for next morning bright and early, while superintending Monsieur Piotr’s toilet, she received a hurried scrawl from Laurence’s Serene-Highness, declining rather curtly a formal invitation to dinner at the Hôtel de Plenhöel, but asking Marguerite if she could “lend” her one of her salons for that same night to receive a few intimate friends, “as,” she ingenuously added, “I will feel much freer there as a hostess than if using the suite placed at my disposal by the Russian Ambassador.” There was not a word for or about Piotr, and the reader’s brows came rather brusquely together as she read. Though she had retained all the untouched innocence of a highly bred French girl, Marguerite was no fool, and instantly scented something or other behind this strangely worded request--something that was not--well--not quite correct. “Is the bearer waiting?” she asked of the footman at the dressing-room door. “Yes, mademoiselle.” “Tell him to keep on waiting, please,” and with an excuse to Piotr--who in his new-born enthusiasm was not minded to let her out of his sight--she hurried to her father’s study. “Papa,” she said, a little breathlessly, “here’s a note from Laurence. What do you wish me to do about it?” Régis ran his eye over the penetratingly perfumed sheet, and said nothing. “Well,” repeated the “Gamin,” “what do you wish me to do, papa?” “Say yes,” Régis replied, “but understand me, _Chevalier_, you are under no circumstances to be present when she comes to-night. Madame Laurence gives me the impression of having become even something more of a--a difficulty than she was as Mademoiselle Seton! I will for once--yes, for once--accept the responsibility of what she calls a reunion of her intimate friends. We shall see, or, rather, I shall see, what she means by it, but--”