“Mistress Winthrop,” he resumed, with an entire change of voice. “To speak of this trifle is but a subterfuge of yours to prevent me from expressing my deep gratitude for your care of me.” “Indeed, no--” she began. “Indeed, yes,” said he. “How can this compare with what you have done for me? For I have learnt how greatly it is to you, yourself, that I owe my recovery--the saving of my life.” “Ah, but that is not true. It--” “Let me think so, whether it be true or not,” he implored her, eyes between tenderness and whimsicality intent upon her face. “Let me believe it, for the belief has brought me happiness--the greatest happiness, I think, that I have ever known. I can know but one greater, and that--” He broke off suddenly, and she observed that the hand he had stretched out trembled a moment ere it was abruptly lowered again. It was as a man who had reached forth to grasp something that he craves, and checked his desire upon a sudden thought. She felt oddly stirred, despite herself, and oddly constrained. It may have been to disguise this that she half turned to the table, saying: “You were about to smoke when I came.” And she took up his pipe and tobacco--jar to offer them. “Ah, but since you've come, I would not dream,” he said. She looked at him. The complete change of topic permitted it. “If I desired you so to do?” she inquired, and added: “I love the fragrance of it.” He raised his brows. “Fragrance?” quoth he. “My Lady Ostermore has another word for it.” He took the pipe and jar from her. “'Tis no humoring, this, of a man you imagine sick--no silly chivalry of yours?” he questioned doubtfully. “Did I think that, I'd never smoke another pipe again.” She shook her head, and laughed at his solemnity. “I love the fragrance,” she repeated. “Ah! Why, then, I'll pleasure you,” said he, with the air of one conferring favors, and filled his pipe. Presently he spoke again in a musing tone. “In a week or so, I shall be well enough to travel.” “'Tis your intent to travel?” she inquired. He set down the jar, and reached for the tinderbox. “It is time I was returning home,” he explained. “Ah, yes. Your home is in France.” “At Maligny; the sweetest nook in Normandy. 'Twas my mother's birthplace, and 'twas there she died.” “You have felt the loss of her, I make no doubt.” “That might have been the case if I had known her,” answered he. “But as it is, I never did. I was but two years old--she, herself, but twenty--when she died.” He pulled at his pipe in silence a moment or two, his face overcast and thoughtful. A shallower woman would have broken in with expressions of regret; Hortensia offered him the nobler sympathy of silence. Moreover, she had felt from his tone that there was more to come; that what he had said was but the preface to some story that he desired her to be acquainted with. And presently, as she expected, he continued.