“What do you suppose Auguste and Claire find to say to each other in these tremendously long private interviews?” she asked, wishing from the bottom of her heart that Marsac would show some inclination toward long private interviews with her. “I have a great mind to interrupt this one.” “Pray, don’t,” cried Marsac, eagerly; and then with a sickly attempt at a return to his old manner, he said, “Let them be happy while they can. Soon they will be married, and then--” A dismal shaking of the head finished the sentence. Every word went like a knife to Delphine’s tortured heart; but not to be outdone, she flippantly replied, “As far as those two go, Plato might never have lived, and Socrates might never have died!” Now, for a long time, ever since Marsac had known and loved Delphine, the name of Plato had become peculiarly odious to him. He considered that a large part of the misery he was enduring was directly to be laid at the door of that philosopher, and he had often ardently wished to himself that Plato and not Socrates had been forced to drink the hemlock. He could not forbear saying bitterly,-- “Do you know, Mademoiselle, there are persons who loathe and hate and despise and revile and scorn and contemn the divine Plato?” Marsac’s tone of ineffable disgust when he said “divine” might have enlightened Delphine; but it did not. “I am afraid our two friends in the conservatory do not appreciate him,” she answered, smiling. “I dare say Claire is asking Auguste the very same question that Eve asked Adam in the Garden of Eden,--is she the only woman he has ever loved?” It occurred to Marsac that it would be well to prepare Delphine for what Fontaine actually was revealing at that moment; so drawing his chair nearer, he said confidentially, “Mademoiselle, I can tell you exactly what they are talking about at this moment. What would you think if I were to tell you that Fontaine’s Uncle Maurice was not dead, after all, but has just arrived at our lodgings, and will very soon present himself in this room?” Delphine’s mouth came open with astonishment, and her first question when she had recovered from the shock of her surprise was, “And how about the fortune?” Marsac shook his head lugubriously. “I can tell you nothing. That fortune is involved in the deepest mystery. There are indications of a plot the most extraordinary you can conceive. I know nothing, except that Monsieur Maurice Fontaine is alive, and is in Paris, and will be here shortly.” And then, to divert her from so perilous a subject, he said, “But we are consumed with anxiety regarding Monsieur Duval and the Comtesse de Fleury. It will be terrible for you and Claire if she succeeds in capturing Monsieur Duval.” Delphine’s answer was artfully contrived: “If that dreadful woman should succeed in marrying my uncle, this could no longer be a home for me.”