Mary stood in the ruined gateway, waving her hand to Pierre who went running and skipping along the white road after those faint-heard, those elusive drum-taps that might have been anywhere and seemed to be everywhere. "We shall meet again after the war," he had called back to her. Mademoiselle sent for Monsieur Menard and begged him not to interfere again with his son's desire to serve France, and she was so eloquent that Monsieur Menard gave way. But when peace was signed, Pierre did not come back to Châteaublanc, because his father vowed that there would be no doing anything with him nowadays. So through the interest of one of Mademoiselle's patrons he was found a clerkship in the English branch of a big French commercial house, and Mary did not see him again in Châteaublanc. But he was her first romance, and the memory of Pierre did not fade quickly, even when Mademoiselle's house was full of girls again and Mary's real school life began. _Chapter Three_ THE MAIDEN _Chapter Three: The Maiden_ On a January afternoon, the afternoon of her twentieth birthday, Mary Flower stood by the drawing-room windows of a house in King's Gate, staring out across the Knightsbridge road to where in soot and snow the trees of Hyde Park were etched upon a gray expanse of sky. The house was very still, for it was the time when old Lady Flower took her daily nap, to the routine of which she attributed the vitality that enabled her at seventy to sustain the exertion of arranging an advantageous marriage for her granddaughter. To-day lunch had been protracted to celebrate with various dishes Mary's birthday, and to-night a dinner-party was to be followed by a musical reception. The house, seeming to conspire with her ladyship's snores, achieved a stillness that was even more perceptible than usual. Mary's meditations were neither so profound nor so romantic as any passer-by that looked up and glimpsed the form of that beautiful young woman in her glass world might have imagined. Mostly they were directed to her new evening gown, a polonaise snatched it might almost be said prematurely by Lady Flower from the most fashionable of Parisian costumiers. Mary dreamed of its _passementerie_ of beads and ruching of Honiton lace, and then with heightened color of the amount of bare arm it must reveal. She supposed that her grandmother was right and that she should display as much of the upper part of her arm without risk of censorious comment, but....