"I think you must have known it," he corrected suavely. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" It was very correctly done, Claude de Chauxville had regained control over himself. He was able to think about the riches which were evidently hers. But through the thought he loved the woman. The lady lowered the feather screen which she was holding between her face and the fire. Regardless of the imminent danger in which she was placing her complexion, she studied the glowing cinders for some moments, weighing something or some persons in her mind. "No, my friend," she answered in French, at length. The baron's face was drawn and white. Beneath his trim black mustache there was a momentary gleam of sharp white teeth as he bit his lip. He came nearer to her, leaning one hand on the back of her chair, looking down. He could only see the beautifully dressed hair, the clean-cut profile. She continued to look into the fire, conscious of the hand close to her shoulder. "No, my friend," she repeated. "We know each other too well for that. It would never do." "But when I tell you that I love you," he said quietly, with his voice well in control. "I did not know that the word was in your vocabulary--you, a diplomat." "And a man--you put the word there--Etta." The hand-screen was raised for a moment in objection--presumably to the Christian name of which he had made use. He waited; passivity was one of his strong points. It had frightened men before this. Then, with a graceful movement, she swung suddenly round in her chair, looking up at him. She broke into a merry laugh. "I believe you are actually in earnest!" she cried. He looked quietly down into her face without moving a muscle in response to her change of humor. "Very clever," he said. "What?" she asked, still smiling. "The attitude, the voice, every thing. You have known all along that I am in earnest, you have known it for the last six months. You have seen me often enough when I was--well, not in earnest, to know the difference." Etta rose quickly. It was some lightning-like woman's instinct that made her do so. Standing, she was taller than M. de Chauxville. "Do not let us be tragic," she said coldly. "You have asked me to marry you; why, I don't know. The reason will probably transpire later. I appreciate the honor, but I beg to decline it. Et voilà tout. All is said." He spread out apologetic hands. "All is not said," he corrected, with a dangerous suavity. "I acknowledge the claim enjoyed by your sex to the last word. In this matter, however, I am inclined to deny it to the individual." Etta Sydney Bamborough smiled. She leaned against the mantelpiece, with her chin resting on her curved fingers. The attitude was eminently calculated to show to full advantage a faultless figure. She evidently had no desire to cheapen that which she would deny. She shrugged her shoulders and waited.