Jeanne sank into the centre of her amber and blue draperies; emerged languorous, extended with queenly grace a hand to Foulkes and another to Sir John, and from the very sweep of her courtesies flung a condescending phrase at her rival:— “Monsieur, your handsome cousin, has been so eloquent about you, madam, that ’tis almost as if I knew you already.” “He is very kind,” faltered Diana, ill at ease, she scarce knew why. Then, mindful of her duty as hostess, “You know my Lord Rockhurst?” The lady looked beyond them into the night of the garden. “We _have_ met,” she said in dreamy tones, and sailed into a third obeisance. The two gentlemen of the Court instinctively drew together. “What has come to that pretty piece from France? Her looks are oddly altered, think you not? And her manner is somewhat singular to-night. What makes she in this prim circle? She should be at Salisbury,” whispered Foulkes. Sir John Farringdon jerked his thumb knowingly toward the Lord Constable; both looked, laughed, and wagged their heads. Rockhurst stepped forward and unostentatiously drew Diana away from Madame de Mantes. Lionel seized his moment:— “What did you, from the room?” he whispered hurriedly in his ally’s ear. “You had your chance, and let it slip! I had not brought you here—” He stopped suddenly, staring at her askance. The great enamel clasp, that held the artfully careless draperies at her breast, rose and fell with her over-quick breathing, yet her mood was strangely cheerful; nay, incomprehensible, for he marked that her eyes were red. She had wept, he angrily thought, and robbed herself well-nigh of all her beauty. “You’ve lost the trick for both of us,” he muttered bitterly. “Don’t be too sure,” she bade him, drawing closer to him. “Look at them!” she cried, tossing her curls in the direction of Rockhurst and Diana. “Ha! you’d have me believe Rockhurst in love—in love with that white, bloodless, fireless country stock! Oh, sir, I have seen Rockhurst in love!” A smile twisted his lips; he looked at her cruelly. She proceeded with a mixture of exultation and bitterness:— “I watched them; they thought themselves alone. I tell you he made no attempt to do more than kiss her finger-tips! Ah, _mon Dieu_!” Her laughter was like a flame running through her. “With me—Ah, you men! do I not know you?” “Pshaw!” said Ratcliffe, deliberately. “Something you may know of us, and know well. But you know not what a virtuous woman can make of us.” She wheeled on him, clenching her hands as though to strike him. “Indeed!” she panted. “And have I not had as much virtue as any woman—once?” Then, finding his gaze fixed upon his cousin, she halted upon precipitate speech, watched him keenly for a second, and broke into loud laughter. “Hush!” he cried, starting at the wanton sound.