“So I perceive,” she returned, and, rising quickly, she added: “I think I hear a motor stopping. Some of my friends, probably.” “Probably,” he assented. “So permit me to take leave of you for the present. Pray command me if I can do anything else. There are, I believe, some--refreshments prepared in the adjoining room, and the butler is in attendance.” “But,” she murmured, showing embarrassment for the first time, “are you not going to be one of us? It--it would not disturb me.” “Thank you for this kindly assurance.” He bowed low as he spoke, and without another word made his exit by a side-door, leaving her to go forward and greet whoever it was that was coming. At the farther end of the drawing-room was a carven balcony where some tall palms and ferns stood, which was reached by an outer staircase. There, on gala-nights, musicians were placed to underline the conversation, so to speak, by graceful melodies executed on harp and violin, cello and viola-d’amore. It had been a pretty conceit of Régis’s mother thus to entertain her guests, and the Marquis, who had adored her, and never passed the graceful nook without a thrust of reminiscence, paused for a moment on his way up-stairs--between the heavy draperies that separated it from the landing. It never entered his head that from where he stood he could see without being seen. Indeed, he was at the moment quite absorbed in debating with himself whether he had not been extremely stupid to allow Laurence the privilege she was now enjoying. Though by no means straitlaced, Régis de Plenhöel felt almost as if her presence here, under present circumstances, was a desecration of his mother’s memory--of his daughter’s purity; for he had not liked Laurence’s demeanor just now. And then he heard something that made him coolly step upon the balcony and look down. He remained there absolutely petrified and immovable, for immediately beneath was Laurence, her white arms clasped around the neck of a tall man whom, with a start of amazement, he recognized as Captain Neville Moray, the British Military Attaché, whom he had occasionally met since that famous evening five years ago, and always with pleasure. “At last--at last! After a whole long year!” he heard Laurence say; but he scarcely knew her voice again, it was so full of warmth and of passion. In a moment Régis recovered himself sufficiently to see in a flash the abominable situation in which his customary easy-going habits had placed not only himself, but his little daughter, and a fine moisture broke out upon his forehead.