"Oh, dear, no; it's all right," nodded the duchess. "I don't know--and I do not care--where the duke is. Drink this milk, Mr. Aycon. Your arm's not very bad, you know--Jean says it isn't, I mean--but you'd better have milk first, and something to eat when you feel stronger." The duchess appeared to be in excellent spirits. She caught up a bit of toast from the table, poured out a cup of coffee, and, still moving about, began a light breakfast, with every sign of appetite and enjoyment. "You've come back?" said I, looking at her in persistent surprise. Suzanne put the cushions behind my back in a more comfortable position, smiled kindly on us, and left us. "Yes," said the duchess, "I have for the present, Mr. Aycon." "But--but the duke--" I stammered. "I don't mind the duke," said she. "Besides, he may not come. It's rather nice that you're just a little hurt. Don't you think so, Mr. Aycon? Just a little, you know." "Why?" was all I found to say. The reason was not clear to me. "Why, in the first place, because you can't fight till your arm's well--oh, yes, of course Armand was going to fight you--and, in the second place, you can and must stay here. There's no harm in it, while you're ill, you see; Armand can't say there is. It's rather funny, isn't it, Mr. Aycon?" and she munched a morsel of toast, and leaned her elbows on the table and sent a sparkling glance across at me, for all the world as she had done on the first night I knew her. The cares of the world did not gall the shoulders of Mme. de Saint-Maclou. "But why are you here?" said I, sticking to my point. The duchess set down the cup of coffee which she had been sipping. "I am not particular," said she. "But I told the Mother Superior exactly what I told the duke. She wouldn't listen any more than he would. However, I was resolved; so I came here. I don't see where else I could go, do you, Mr. Aycon?" "What did you tell the Mother?" The duchess stretched one hand across the table, clenching her small fist and tapping gently with it on the cloth. "There is one thing that I will not do, Mr. Aycon," said she, a touch of red coming in her cheeks and her lips set in obstinate lines. "I don't care whether the house is my house or anybody else's house, or an inn--yes, or a convent either. But I will not be under the same roof with Marie Delhasse." And her declaration finished, the duchess nodded most emphatically, and turned to her cup again. The name of Marie Delhasse, shot forth from Mme. de Saint-Maclou's pouting lips, pierced the cloud that had seemed to envelop my brain. I sat up on the sofa and looked eagerly at the duchess. "You saw her, then, at the convent?" I asked. "Yes, I met her in the chapel. Really, I should have expected to be safe from her there. And the Mother would not turn her out!" And then the duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half challenging smile: "You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?"