Clyffurde felt an intense--an unreasoning pity for her, and because of that pity--the gentle kinsman of fierce love--he found it in his heart to forgive her all her prejudices, that almost arrogant pride of caste which was in her blood, for which she was no more responsible than she was for the colour of her hair or the vivid blue of her eyes; she seemed so forlorn--such a child, in the midst of all this decadent grandeur. She was being so ruthlessly sacrificed for ideals that were no longer tenable, that had ceased to be tenable five and twenty years ago when this château and these lands were overrun by a savage and vengeful mob, who were loudly demanding the right to live in happiness, in comfort, and in freedom. That right had been denied to them through the past centuries by those who were of her own kith and kin, and it was snatched with brutal force, with lust of hate and thirst for reprisals, by the revolutionary crowd when it came into its own at last. Something of the pity which he felt for this beautiful and innocent victim of rancour, oppression and prejudice, must have been manifest in Clyffurde's earnest eyes, for when Crystal looked up to him and met his glance she drew herself up with an air of haughty detachment. And with that, she wished to convey still more tangibly to him the idea of that barrier of caste which must for ever divide her from him. Obviously his look of pity had angered her, for now she said abruptly and with marked coldness: "My father tells me, Sir, that you are thinking of leaving France shortly." "Indeed, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I have trespassed too long as it is on M. le Comte's gracious hospitality. My visit originally was only for a fortnight. I thought of leaving for England to-morrow." A little lift of the eyebrows, an unnecessary smoothing of an invisible crease in her gown and Crystal asked lightly: "Before the . . . my wedding, Sir?" "Before your wedding, Mademoiselle." She frowned--vaguely stirred to irritation by his ill-concealed indifference. "I trust," she rejoined pointedly, "that you are satisfied with your trade in Grenoble." The little shaft was meant to sting, but if Bobby felt any pain he certainly appeared to bear it with perfect good-humour. "I am quite satisfied," he said. "I thank you, Mademoiselle." "It must be very pleasing to conclude such affairs satisfactorily," she continued. "Very pleasing, Mademoiselle." "Of course--given the right temperament for such a career--it must be so much more comfortable to spend one's life in making money--buying and selling things and so on--rather than to risk it every day for the barren honour of serving one's king and country." "As you say, Mademoiselle," he said quite imperturbably, "given the right temperament, it certainly is much more comfortable." "And you, Sir, I take it, are the happy possessor of such a temperament." "I suppose so, Mademoiselle."