For the first time an expression came into her serene voice; it was an expression of tenderness. “Anyone would know everything about you, Monsieur, by looking at your face,” she answered; then she turned and picked a spray of wallflower from behind her and turned it over and over between her fingers. The Marquis seated himself on the other end of the bench; he was wondering what whim caused her to keep this dreary, closed-in, barren garden, what fancy made her bring him there, where they were as remote from the world as they had been when enwrapped by the Bohemian snowstorms. The whole square of grass was in shadow; only in the upper leaves of the poplars the reluctant light still quivered. The air was rather cool and the sky a dome of colourless light. “There is a street at the end of the garden,” said Carola--“the Rue Deauville, still the place is very quiet.” “Will you continue to live here?” he asked, for this abode seemed neither like her home nor the residence of any wealthy noblewoman, pretentious to stateliness though it was. “No,” answered the Countess. “I am going to Vienna this summer.” She was still occupied in twirling the sprig of wallflower and did not raise her eyes. The gorgeous quality of her appearance, delicate and complete, was an anomaly with the humble and neglected garden. Her hood had slipped back, and the long, stiff grey curls hung against her neck and threw up the dusky shadow under her chin. “It is strange enough,” said Luc, “that we two, meeting so curiously in war-time, should be sitting here in this utter peace.” “Do you regret the war?” she asked. He would not answer that. She saw the pride that held him silent in the profile turned towards her. “You are better suited,” she said, “for war than politics, Monsieur.” She was looking now at him, not at the flower turning in her fingers. “My God,” she cried, with sudden soft force, “I wonder if you know what kind of work politics is!” He thought of M. de Richelieu. “I know well enough,” he said; “but there are great men still in France, and I am resolved to serve the King.” “Have you seen the King?” she asked quickly. “No, Madame.” “Ah, well, they call him Louis the Well-Beloved, do they not?” “How could he be otherwise--young, glorious, brave, the hope of France?” A flash came into his voice and he raised his brows in a little frown, as was his habit when excited. Carola Koklinska moved in her seat, so that her silk mantle fell apart over the long sheen of her gold gown. “You must come to the fête at Versailles next week,” she said. “M. de Caumont, who is a friend of my family, requested my presence there with him,” answered Luc. “Shall I see you there, Madame?” “Yes--oh yes.” Luc was pleased with this meeting. Carola’s gravity, reserve, the slight mystery of her background all encouraged the abstract ideas of strength, purity, and spirituality that he had associated with her image.