“On the contrary,” she answered coolly, though I could have sworn she blushed, “I was thinking only that last night I was safe with my friends at the château----” “Oh!” I said, not waiting to hear more; and I sank back into my seat with a gesture of impatience. “Though if you had not interrupted my thoughts,” she continued, smiling slyly, “I should doubtless in time have come to the garden scene.” “In time!” I repeated bitterly. “Of all the hours of my life, that one is ever present with me. It eclipses all the rest.” “It will fade!” she assured me lightly. “It will fade! As for me, I do not dwell upon it, because I must be careful.” “Careful?” “Certainly. Careful not to permit myself to think too tenderly of a man already betrothed. That would be the height of folly. Suppose I should begin to love him!” “I see you are armed against me,” I said dismally, “and that the poniard of your wit is as sharp as ever.” “It is the instinctive weapon of our sex,” she explained. “We draw it whenever we scent danger. Once it fails us we are lost.” “It failed you for a time last night, thank God!” I retorted. “I have that to remember;” and I recalled the sweet face raised to mine, the yielding form---- “Ungenerous!” she cried. “I did not think it of you, M. de Tavernay! Darkness and stress of storm drive a bird to take refuge in your bosom, and at daybreak you wring its neck!” “No,” I said, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, “I release it; I toss it back into the air; it flies away without a thought of me, glad only to escape; but I--I remember it, and love it, and I thank heaven for the chance which drove it to me.” Impulsively she reached out her hand and touched my own. “That is more like yourself,” she said. “Now I know you again. And perhaps, my friend, the bird is not so ungrateful as you think.” “It may even return to the bosom which sheltered it?” I asked softly, leaning forward. “You think that, mademoiselle?” “I fancy it would fear to do so.” “Fear?” I repeated. “Surely--that least of all!” “Fear that it might not find the bosom empty,” she explained remorselessly; and I saw the old light in her eyes. “Fear that it might blunder upon another occupant with a better right----” I drew away from her, wounded, stung. “But whether it returns or not,” she added in a gentler tone, “I am sure it will never forget.” And with that comfort, cold as it was, I was forced to be content. “Come,” I said, a sudden impatience of the place seizing me, “we must be getting forward. The moon will light our way.” And then my heart fell suddenly; for I remembered her torn and ragged shoes. “I could not get you shoes,” I said. “No one can accomplish the impossible. It was foolish of me to ask for them.” “I _will_ get them,” I said; “but until then I shall have to carry you.” “Nonsense!” she protested. “You will do nothing of the kind. With that light in the sky I can choose my steps. Besides, my shoes are stronger than you imagine.”