Up to a certain point, Barebone and Dormer Colville became fast friends during the month that elapsed between their departure from Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence's house and their arrival at the inn at Gemosac. The “White Horse,” at Gemosac, was no better and no worse than any other “White Horse” in any other small town of France. It was, however, better than the principal inn of a town of the same size in any other habitable part of the globe. There were many reasons why the Marquis de Gemosac had yielded to Colville's contention--that the time had not yet come for Loo Barebone to be his guest at the chateau. “He is inclined to be indolent,” Colville had whispered. “One recognises, in many traits of character, the source from whence his blood is drawn. He will not exert himself so long as there is some one else at hand who is prepared to take trouble. He must learn that it is necessary to act for himself. He needs rousing. Let him travel through France, and see for himself that of which he has as yet only learnt at second-hand. That will rouse him.” And the journey through the valleys of the Garonne and the Dordogne had been undertaken. Another, greater journey, was now afoot, to end at no less a centre of political life than Paris. A start was to be made this evening, and Dormer Colville now came to report that all was ready and the horses at the gate. “If there were scenes such as this for all of us to linger in, mademoiselle,” he said, lifting his face to the western sky and inhaling the scent of the flowers growing knee-deep all around him, “men would accomplish little in their brief lifetime.” His eyes, dreamy and reflective, wandered over the scene and paused, just for a moment in passing, on Juliette's face. She continued her way, with no other answer than a smile. “She grows, my dear Marquis--she grows every minute of the day and wakes up a new woman every morning,” said Colville, in a confidential aside, and he went forward to meet Loo with his accustomed laugh of good-fellowship. He whom the world calls a good fellow is never a wise man. Barebone walked toward the gate without joining in the talk of his companions. He was thoughtful and uneasy. He had come to say good-bye and nothing else. He was wondering if he had really meant what he had said. “Come,” interrupted Colville's smooth voice. “We must get into the saddle and begone. I was just telling Monsieur and Mademoiselle Juliette, that any man might be tempted to linger at Gemosac until the active years of a lifetime rolled by.” The Marquis made the needful reply; hoping that he might yet live to see Gemosac--and not only Gemosac, but a hundred chateaux like it--reawakened to their ancient glory, and thrown open to welcome the restorer of their fallen fortunes. Colville looked from one to the other, and then, with his foot in the stirrup, turned to look at Juliette, who had followed them to the gate.