“No, Mademoiselle. It comes to you, and it stops at you. I do not mind withholding it from your father, and from all the friends who have been so kind to me in France. I do not mind deceiving kings and emperors, Mademoiselle, and even the People, which is now always spelt in capital letters, and must be spoken of with bated breath.” She gave a scornful little laugh, as at the sound of an old jest--the note of a deathless disdain which was in the air she breathed. “Not even the newspapers, which are trying to govern France. All that is a question of politics. But when it comes to you, Mademoiselle, that is a different matter.” “Ah!” “Yes. It is then a question of love.” Juliette slowly changed colour, but she gave a little gay laugh of incredulity and bent her head away from the light of the lamp. “That is a different code of honour altogether,” he said, gravely. “A code one does not wish to tamper with.” “No?” she inquired, with the odd little smile of foreknowledge again. “No. And, therefore, before I go any farther, I think it best to tell you that I am not what I am pretending to be. I am pretending to be the son of the little Dauphin, who escaped from the Temple. He may have escaped from the Temple; that I don't know. But I know, or at least I think I know, that he is not buried in Farlingford churchyard and he was not my father. I can pass as the grandson of Louis XVI.; I know that. I can deceive all the world. I can even climb to the throne of France, perhaps. There are many, as you know, who think I shall do it without difficulty. But I do not propose to deceive YOU, Mademoiselle.” There was a short silence, while Loo watched her face. Juliette had not even changed colour. When she was satisfied that he had nothing more to add, she looked at him, her needle poised in the air. “Do you think it matters?” she asked, in a little cool, even voice. It was so different from what he had expected that, for a moment, he was taken aback. Captain Clubbe's bluff, uncompromising reception of the same news had haunted his thoughts. “The square thing,” that sailor had said, “and damn your friends; damn France.” Loo looked at Juliette in doubt; then, suddenly, he understood her point of view; he understood her. He had learnt to understand a number of people and a number of points of view during the last twelve months. “So long as I succeed?” he suggested. “Yes,” she answered, simply. “So long as you succeed, I do not see that it can matter who you are.” “And if I succeed,” pursued Loo, gravely, “will you marry me, Mademoiselle?” “Oh! I never said that,” in a voice that was ready to yield to a really good argument. “And if I fail--” Barebone paused for an instant. He still doubted his own perception. “And if I fail, you would not marry me under any circumstances?” “I do not think my father would let me,” she answered, with her eyes cast down upon her lace-frame.