"I have never in my _life_ heard any man express such improper ideas upon a serious subject," she remarked with icy emphasis. "And I am _quite_ thankful that your peculiar views prevent you from wishing to marry my daughter." "_Bien_! Then we are of one mind after all," Maurice answered cheerfully. "And since we understand each other, may I at least be permitted to see Miss Mayhew before I go?" "See her? Certainly _not_. Really, Mr Maurice, your effrontery astounds me! Understand, please, that from to-day there is an _end_ of your free-and-easy French intimacies! Colonel Mayhew and I have to consider her good name and her future happiness; and we cannot allow you, or any man, to endanger either." Michael shrugged his shoulders. His disappointment was keener than he cared to show; but this hopeless little woman, with her bourgeois point of view, was obviously blind and deaf to common-sense or reason. "I would not for the world endanger Miss Mayhew's happiness, or her good name," he said, not without dignity. "And as one may not see her, there is no more to be said." He held out his hand. But Mrs Mayhew's manners were not proof against so severe a shock to her maternal vanity. She bowed as if the gesture had escaped her notice. "Good-bye, Mr Maurice," she said rigidly. He returned her bow in silence, slipped the rejected hand into his pocket, and went out. In passing through the hall he was aware of a slim white figure coming down the broad staircase; and without an instant's hesitation he stood still. In spite of "the little she-dragon in there," he would see her yet. For the knowledge that he had lost her increased her value tenfold. "You are really pleased with it--tell me?" he said eagerly as their hands met, for he saw the question in her eyes. "Pleased? You know I am. It is _much_ too good of you to give me such a splendid present; and father is simply delighted. But why are you going away? I thought you would stay to tea." He still held her hand, in defiance of a gentle attempt to withdraw it, and now he pressed it closer. "Unhappily I must go," he said, without looking at her. "Your mother will tell you why, better than I can do. Good-bye---_petite amis_. Think well of me, if you can." He bent over her hand, kissed it lingeringly, and was gone before she could find words to express her bewilderment. CHAPTER XVI. "What we love we'll serve, aye, and suffer for too." --W. Penn. After sunset the mist came down again, thick as cotton-wool. Heaven and earth were obliterated, and a quietly determined downpour set in for the night.