"But this so-called Duke could help parading the doubtful honor of his descent; yet who fails to return his bow? And I have yet to learn that his mother was ignored by the ladies of her day. Those Hortensias on his carriage are horrible to me; they are an attempt to exalt in a queen the immorality condemned in a subject." "Ah! You make my head swim with your theories," confessed the Countess. "How do you find time to study them all?" "They require no study; one meets them daily in the street or court. The difficulty is to cease thinking of them--to enjoy a careless life when justice is always calling somewhere for help." "I refuse to be annoyed by the calls, yet am comfortable," said Madame Choudey. "The people who imagine they hear justice calling have had, too often, to follow the calls into exile." "That is true," agreed her friend; "take care Marquise! Your theories are very interesting, but, truly, you are a revolutionist." Their little battle of words did not prevent them parting with smiles and all pleasantry. But the Countess Biron, to whose house the Marquise was going, grimaced and looked at her with a smile of doubt when they were alone. "Do you realize how daring you are Judithe?--to succeed socially you should not appeal to the brains of people, but to their vanities." "Farewell, my social ambitions!" laughed the Marquise. "Dear Countess, pray do not scold! I could not help it. Why must the very respectable world see only the sins of the unfortunate, and save all their charity for the heads with coronets? Maman is not like that; she is always gentle with the people who have never been taught goodness; though she is severe on those who disgrace good training. I like her way best; and Alain? Well, he only told me to do my own thinking, to be sure I was right before I spoke, and to let no other consideration weigh at all." "Yes! and he died in exile because he let no worldly consideration weigh," said the Countess Helene grimly. CHAPTER IX. At the entrance to the gallery the Marquise saw Dumaresque on the step, and with him Kenneth McVeigh. She entered the carriage, hoping the Countess would not perceive them; but the hope was in vain, she did, and she motioned them both to her to learn if Mrs. McVeigh had also unexpectedly returned. She had not. Italy was yet attractive to her, and the Lieutenant had come alone. He was to await her arrival, whenever she chose, and then their holiday would be over. When they left Paris again it would be for America. He smiled in the same lazy, yet deferential way, as the Countess chatted and questioned him. He confessed he did not remember why he had returned; at least he could not tell in a crowd, or with cynical Dumaresque listening to him. "Invite him home, and he will vow it was to see you," said the artist. "I mean to," she retorted; "but do not judge all men by yourself, Monsieur Loris, for I suspect Lieutenant McVeigh has a conscience."