Then Molly offered the new-comer some tea, and the party broke up into groups. But the Vicomte's personality in some subtle manner pervaded the room. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables and felt ponderous. Monsieur d'Audierne had it in his power to make most men feel ponderous when the spirit moved him in that direction. As soon as tea was finally disposed of Mrs. Carew proposed an adjournment to the garden. She was desirous of getting Mr. Bodery to herself. It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the Frenchman. They had been great friends once, and she was quite ready to renew the pleasant relationship. She led her guest to the prettiest part of the garden--the old overgrown footpath around the moat. As soon as they had passed under the nut-trees into the open space at the edge of the water, the Vicomte d'Audierne stopped short and looked round him curiously. At the same time he gave a strange little laugh. “_Hein--hein--c'est drôle_,” he muttered, and the girl remembered that in the old friendship between the brilliant, middle-aged diplomatist and the little child they had always spoken French. She liked to hear him speak his own language, for in his lips it received full justice: it was the finest tongue spoken on this earth. But she did not feel disposed just then to humour him. She looked at him wonderingly as his deep eyes wandered over the scene. While they stood there, something--probably a kestrel--disturbed the rooks dwelling in the summits of the still elms across the moat, and they rose simultaneously in the air with long-drawn cries. “Ah! Ah--h!” said the Vicomte, with a singular smile. And then Hilda forgot her shyness. “What is it?” she inquired in the language she had always spoken to this man. He turned and walked beside her, suiting his steps to hers, for some moments before replying. “I was not here at all,” he said at length, apologetically; “I was far away from you. It was impolite. I am sorry.” He intended that she should laugh, and she did so softly. “Where were you?” she inquired, glancing at him beneath her golden lashes. Again he paused. “There is,” he said at length, “an old _château_ in Morbihan--many miles from a railway--in the heart of a peaceful country. It has a moat like this--there are elms--there are rooks that swing up into the air like that and call--and one does not know why they do it, and what they are calling. Listen, little girl--they are calling something. What is it? I think I was _there_. It was impolite--I am sorry, Miss Carew.” She laughed again sympathetically and without mirth; for she was meant to laugh. He looked back over his shoulder at times as if the calling of the rooks jarred upon his nerves. “I do not think I like them--” he said, “now.”