"Oh! forgive me, madame!" cried Morangy; "on my knees I implore my pardon. When I saw you leave the ball suddenly with Pepa, I thought that you were ill. You have not been well these last few days, and I was so frightened! In God's name, forgive me, Lavinia! I am a fool, a madman--but I love you so dearly that I no longer know what I am doing." While the count was speaking, Lionel, hardly recovered from his surprise, flew into a violent rage. "Insolent creature!" he thought, "to dare to ask me to be present at a tête-à-tête with her lover! Ah! if this is premeditated revenge, if it is a wilful insult, let them beware of me! But what folly! if I should show my anger, it would simply make her triumph. No! I will look on at the love scene with the coolness of a true philosopher." He leaned toward the window, and ventured to enlarge, with the end of his riding-crop, the chink between the curtains. He was thus able to see and hear. The Comte de Morangy was one of the handsomest men in France, tall and fair, with a face that was more imposing than expressive, elaborately curled and frizzled, a dandy from head to foot. His voice was soft and velvety. He lisped a little when he talked; his eyes were large, but devoid of brilliancy; his mouth fine and sneering, his hand as white as a woman's, and his foot shod with indescribable elegance. In Sir Lionel's eyes, he was the most formidable rival a man could possibly have to contend against; he was a foeman worthy of his steel, from his whiskers to his great toe. The count spoke French, and Lavinia answered in that tongue, in which she was as proficient as in English. Another new talent! She listened to the _red heel's_ insipid speeches with singular patience. The count ventured upon two or three impassioned sentences, which seemed to Lionel to depart somewhat from the rules of good taste and dramatic propriety. Lavinia did not lose her temper; there was not even a suspicion of mockery in her smile. She urged the count to return first to the ball, saying that it would not be proper for her to return with him. But he persisted in his purpose to escort her to the door, swearing that he would not go inside until she had been there a quarter of an hour. As he spoke, he seized Lady Blake's hands, which she abandoned to him with indolent and provoking heedlessness. Sir Lionel lost his patience. "I am a great fool," he said to himself, at last, "to look on patiently at this mystification, when I can go away."