One bright evening early in May, they had dined at Passy, and after dinner sat, with the two girls and old Duval, on the terrace. The evening was warm for the season, and coffee was served out of doors. After a while Delphine, who carried a volume of Plato about with her as her oriflamme of battle, asked Marsac to read something to them from the great philosopher. This Marsac promptly agreed to, if Delphine would hold a candle,--which would be necessary in the fading light. As it brought Delphine’s golden head quite close to Marsac’s closely cropped brown one, she consented willingly. Old Duval, who had but a poor opinion of Plato, sauntered off to the other end of the terrace, close by the hedge which overlooked the high-road. A table with coffee, iced champagne, and cigars mitigated his solitude. Afar off in the dark illumined by the wax candle which looked like a firefly, Marsac read Plato aloud, with assent on his lips and contradiction in his heart. Fontaine and Claire, exchanging laughing glances, varied by an occasional tender pressure of the hands, half listened; while Delphine, happy to be near Marsac, and smiling at him, yet cherished bitterness against him in her heart for his professed disdain of love. [Illustration] Presently Monsieur Duval was heard calling, “Monsieur Marsac!” Marsac, to whom Plato had become well-nigh intolerable, laid the book down with a vicious slam, and walked to the other end of the terrace, where they were almost out of sight and hearing. “Come,” said the old man, good-humouredly, “haven’t you had enough of that old fool Plato?” “My dear Monsieur Duval, you horrify me, you pain me!” responded Marsac, in a shocked voice. “Plato--the divine Plato--may go to the devil,” was his inward conclusion. “Well, well,” continued Monsieur Duval, “we won’t say anything more on the subject, since you and Delphine are so touchy about it. Take a glass of champagne,--you like it?” “I am not afraid of it,” said Marsac, pouring out a glass. Monsieur Duval sighed, fidgeted, and then burst out with, “Do you know, I am afraid--I am afraid I have been to blame in letting my daughter and Monsieur Fontaine see so much of each other, while matters are still so uncertain about the Comtesse de Fleury; for I see the two young people are deeply in love with each other. Now,” he continued, with a smile, “there is no such danger for you and Delphine, for I believe you talk about nothing except the folly of loving and being loved.” “True,” responded Marsac, gloomily, and trying to drown in champagne the resentment he felt at the scurvy trick which fate had played him. “Monsieur Fontaine is a very gifted young fellow,” said Monsieur Duval. “He is,” replied Marsac, with enthusiasm. “That picture he painted--” “Admirable!” “I have no objections to a man’s knowing something about art, if he can sell his pictures,” said Monsieur Duval, with cautious praise. “There was--ahem--Michael Angelo, for example--”