Her _naive_ admission and submission inclined him to a better opinion of her than he had hitherto entertained. "After all," thought he, "she has a woman's heart true, but led astray by sinister surroundings." So reflecting, he returned kindly,--"There's nothing either to be pardoned or forgotten, _chere Mademoiselle_. And if there was, how could I refuse a request made as you make it?" He spoke more warmly than had been his wont with her; addressed her as "chere Mademoiselle"--that also unusual. It was all on the spur of the moment, and without thought of its being taken in the way of endearment. But it was so taken, and had the effect of misleading her. "I'm so glad we're to continue friends," she exclaimed, impressively; then in changed tone adding--"About my glove? Is it to be returned? Or do you wish to keep it?" Questions that took him by surprise, at the same time perplexing him. For, though offering a choice of ways, it was a delicate matter which should be taken. The glove was still in his hand, as he had picked it up. To retain it would imply something more than he was in the mind for; while returning it implied something else, equally against his inclinations. It might give offence--be even regarded as a rudeness. A happy thought struck him--a compromise which promised to release him from his dilemma. The glove was a costly thing, embroidered with thread of gold, and beset with jewels. "It is too valuable," he said; "I could not think of keeping it. Oh, no!" and he held it out towards her. But she refused to take it, saying with a laugh,-- "Very considerate of you, sir; and thanks! But I'm not so poor, that it will be impossible for me to replace it by one of like value." Foiled, he drew back his hand; now with no alternative but to keep the token he cared not for. "Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift with gratitude." Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion she had been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of any kind, she thought not of defeat in the game of passion she was playing. "Oh! it's nothing to be grateful for," she lightly rejoined. "Only your due for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!" He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when he saw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved the feathers of the egret, plucked by the base of Ruardean hill. "Perhaps you wouldn't care to carry it there?" she said, half jestingly. "It might spoil the look of that pretty plume."