"You are right; what a fool I am! My tongue ever runs ahead of my wit. Marquise, sometimes I laugh when I remember how capable I thought myself on leaving Paris, what great things I was to do--I!" and she shrugged her plump shoulders in self derision. "Why, I should have been discovered a dozen times had I depended on my own wit. I am a good enough orderly, but only under a capable general," and she made a smiling courtesy to the Marquise. "Chatterbox! If I am the general of your distinguished selection, I shall issue an order at once for your immediate retirement." "Oh, Marquise!" "To bed," concluded her mistress, gayly, "go; I shall not need you. I have work to do." The girl first unlaced the dark boots and substituted a pair of soft pink slippers, and touched her cheek to the slender foot. "I shall envy the maid who does even that for you when I am gone," she said, softly. "Now, good rest to you, my general, and pleasant dreams." "Thanks; but my dreams are never formidable nor important," was the teasing reply as the maid vanished. The careless smile gave way to a quick sigh of relief as the door closed. She arose and walked back and forth across the room with nervous, rapid steps, her hands clasped back of her head and the wide sleeves of the robe slipped back, showing the perfect arms. She seemed a trifle taller than when in Paris that first springtime, and the open robe revealed a figure statuesque, perfect as a sculptor's ideal, yet without the statue's coldness; for the uncovered throat and bosom held delicious dimples where the robe fell apart and was swept aside by her restless movements. But her own appearance was evidently far from her thoughts at that moment. Several of Mrs. McVeigh's very affectionate words and glances had recurred to her and brought her a momentary restlessness. It was utterly absurd that it should be so, especially when she had encouraged the fondness, and meant to continue doing so. But she had not counted on being susceptible to the same feeling for Kenneth McVeigh's mother--yet she had come very near it, and felt it necessary to lay down the limits as to just how far she would allow such a fondness to lead her. And the fact that she was in the home of her one-time lover gave rise to other complex fancies. How would they meet if chance should send him there during her stay? He had had time for many more such boyish fancies since those days, and back of them all was the home sweetheart she heard spoken of so often--Gertrude Loring. How very, very long ago it seemed since the meetings at Fontainbleau; what an impulsive fool she had been, and how childish it all seemed now!