“Andre and I have been playmates from infancy. He is very dear to me, too; almost I regard him as a brother. Were I in need of help, and were my uncle not available, Andre would be the first man to whom I should turn. Are you sufficiently answered, monsieur? Or is there more of me you would desire revealed?” He bit his lip. He was unnerved, he thought, this morning; otherwise the silly suspicion with which he had offended could never have occurred to him. He bowed very low. “Mademoiselle, forgive that I should have troubled you with such a question. You have answered more fully than I could have hoped or wished.” He said no more than that. He waited for her to resume. At a loss, she sat in silence awhile, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers nervously drumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong against the impassive, polished front that he presented. “I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting.” She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretful smile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips, and she hurried on. “What honour can await you in such an engagement, monsieur?” It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted his paramount sentiment, that had as often lured him into error as it had urged him into good. “I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but--I must say it--justice. The engagement, as I have explained, is not of my seeking. It has been thrust upon me, and in honour I cannot draw back.” “Why, what dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely, monsieur, none would call your courage in question? None could misapprehend your motives.” “You are mistaken, mademoiselle. My motives would most certainly be misapprehended. You forget that this young man has acquired in the past week a certain reputation that might well make a man hesitate to meet him.” She brushed that aside almost contemptuously, conceiving it the merest quibble. “Some men, yes. But not you, M. le Marquis.” Her confidence in him on every count was most sweetly flattering. But there was a bitterness behind the sweet. “Even I, mademoiselle, let me assure you. And there is more than that. This quarrel which M. Moreau has forced upon me is no new thing. It is merely the culmination of a long-drawn persecution...” “Which you invited,” she cut in. “Be just, monsieur.” “I hope that it is not in my nature to be otherwise, mademoiselle.” “Consider, then, that you killed his friend.” “I find in that nothing with which to reproach myself. My justification lay in the circumstances--the subsequent events in this distracted country surely confirm it.” “And...” She faltered a little, and looked away from him for the first time. “And that you... that you... And what of Mademoiselle Binet, whom he was to have married?” He stared at her for a moment in sheer surprise. “Was to have married?” he repeated incredulously, dismayed almost. “You did not know that?” “But how do you?”