And then mademoiselle, her eyes kindling, declared that never would she live elsewhere than at Ancelles. He was aghast. For to a man, strong of limb and strong of brain, the life that was a dream amongst the roses could not suffice. In vain he urged his views upon her. She rebelled against his tone of authority. At last she stood before him with head erect, and eyes that flashed on him from under their long lashes. "Choose," she said peremptorily: "London or me." "But, child, hear me----" "I will not hear you. Pray choose at once." "I would have both----" With a little scornful laugh she bade him begone. "Stéphanie----" She waved her white hand towards the gates of Ancelles. "You have chosen. Adieu!" She turned away with a scornful smile on her lips. He sprang forward. "Stéphanie, you must--you _shall_ give way to me in this----" Her small hand clenched. "Monsieur, allow me to pass!" He stood aside. "You will repent," he said. For an instant she turned her great eyes dark with pride on him. "_Never!_" she said, and walked away. * * * * * At Ancelles the roses still blossomed, the sun still shone, though not so hotly, on the little twisting paths, the water nymph still bent gracefully for her dive, and amongst them all flitted their little mistress. In and out, gayer, more restless, swifter of foot than even of yore, she wended her way--a laugh ever on her lips, merry words tripping from her tongue, and hovering near--Jeannette. "Life is good, Jeannette," cried mademoiselle, and gaily she made herself a crown of roses. "Life with love--yes, mamzelle," murmured Jeannette, for she was getting desperate over the problem as to how long a young girl could live eating nothing, or next to nothing. "Love? Bah! Jeannette, what an old sentimentalist you are!" Yet Jeannette had heard the sharp, indrawn breath that preceded the mocking words. And why did mamzelle have to rest half-way up to her room now? Jeannette had seen her again and again, yet never with mademoiselle's knowledge. For if Jeannette were with her, then, setting her little white teeth closely, mademoiselle did the flights of stairs without a pause; but Jeannette saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face; and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care. "It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous." "So is pride, mamzelle." Up went the small crowned head. "Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper and right for those of Ancelles." Jeannette moistened her dry lips. "It can be bought too dearly, mamzelle." "I--do not understand, Jeannette. Surely you are forgetting yourself?"