She looked at him a moment in silence. She was suffering as it was at the very thought that La Boulaye's life might be in danger in consequence of what he had done for her. With reluctance had she accepted the sacrifice of his career which he had made to serve her. Now that it became the question of a sacrifice of life as well she was dismayed. All the wrongs that she and hers had done that man seemed to rise up and reproach her now. And so, when presently she answered the Vicomte, it was no more than natural that she should answer him impatiently. “I thought, Monsieur, that we had already discussed and settled that?” “Settled it?” he echoed, with a sneer. “It seems none so easy to settle. Do you think that words will settle it.” “By no means,” she answered, her voice quivering. “It seems as if a man's life will be required for that.” He shrugged his shoulders, and his face put on a look of annoyance. “I hope, Mademoiselle, that you are not proposing to introduce sentimentality. I think you would be better advised to leave that vulgarity to the vulgar.” “I do not propose to pursue the discussion at all, Monsieur,” was her chilly answer. “The way of woman,” he reflected aloud. “Let her find that she is being worsted in argument, and she calmly tells you that she has no mind to pursue it. But, Mademoiselle, will you tell me at least what you intend?” “What do I intend?” she questioned. “What choice have we?” “Whenever we are asked to follow a given course, we have always the choice between two alternatives,” he theorised. “We can comply, or not comply.” “In the present instance I am afraid your rule is inapplicable. There is no room for any alternative. We can do nothing but wait.” She looked at him impatiently, and wearily she sank on to a chair. “Monsieur,” she said, as calmly as might be, “I am almost distracted by my thoughts as it is. I don't know whether you are seeking to complete the rout of my senses. Let me beg of you at least not to deal in riddles with me. The time is ill-chosen. Tell me bluntly what is in your mind, if, indeed, anything.” He turned from her peevishly, and crossed to the window. The twilight was descending, and the little garden was looking grey in the now pallid light. Her seeming obtuseness was irritating him. “Surely, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed at last, “it is not necessary that I should tell you what other course is open to us? It is a matter for our choice whether we depart at once. We have a passport, and--and, enfin, every hour that we remain here our danger is increased, and our chances of escape are lessened.” “Ah!” She breathed the syllable contemptuously. “And what of La Boulaye?” “Pooh! he says himself that he is in no great danger. He is among his fellows. Leave him to extricate himself. After all, it is his fault that we are here. Why should we endanger our necks by waiting his convenience?”