“This time, I think it really is he,” went on Robert, rising. “Quick! one word before he comes in. My father died this evening.” “Ah!” she said simply. “You haven’t a fancy to become Comtesse de Passavant, have you?” At this Lilian flung herself back with a burst of laughter. “Oh, oh, my dear friend! The fact is I have a vague recollection that I’ve mislaid a husband somewhere or other in England. What! I never told you?” “Not that I remember.” “You might have guessed it; as a rule a Lady’s accompanied by a Lord.” The Comte de Passavant, who had never had much faith in the authenticity of his friend’s title, smiled. She went on: “Is it to cloak your own life, that you’ve taken it into your head to propose such a thing to me? No, my dear friend, no. Let’s stay as we are. Friends, eh?” And she held out her hand, which he kissed. “Ah! Ah! I thought as much,” cried Vincent, as he came into the room. “The traitor! He has dressed!” “Yes, I had promised not to change, so as to keep him in countenance,” said Robert. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, but I suddenly remembered I was in mourning.” Vincent held his head high. An air of triumph and of joy breathed from his whole person. At his arrival, Lilian had sprung to her feet. She looked him up and down for a moment, then rushed joyously at Robert and began belabouring his back with her fists, jumping, dancing and exclaiming as she did so. (Lilian irritates me rather when she puts on this affectation of childishness.) “He has lost his bet! He has lost his bet!” “What bet?” asked Vincent. “He had bet that you would lose your money again to-night. Tell us! Quickly! You’ve won. How much?” “I have had the extraordinary courage--and virtue--to leave off at fifty thousand and come away.” Lilian gave a roar of delight. “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!” she cried. Then she flung her arms round Vincent’s neck. From head to foot, he felt her glowing, lissom body, with its strange perfume of sandal-wood, pressed against his own; and Lilian kissed him on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips. Vincent staggered and freed himself. He took a bundle of bank-notes out of his pocket. “Here! take back what you advanced me,” he said, holding out five of them to Robert. “No,” answered Robert. “It is to Lady Lilian that you owe them now.” And he handed her the notes, which she flung on to the divan. She was panting. She went out on the terrace to breathe. It was that ambiguous hour when night is drawing to an end, and the devil casts up his accounts. Outside not a sound was to be heard. Vincent had seated himself on the divan. Lilian turned towards him: “And now, what do you mean to do?” she asked; and for the first time she called him “thou.” He put his head between his hands and said with a kind of sob: “I don’t know.” Lilian went up to him and put her hand on his forehead; he raised it and his eyes were dry and burning.