Low indeed were the Lilies of France when a daughter of the race of their upholders heeded them so little and the caste they symbolised. Henriette came to her that afternoon, and, all ignorant of the sources of her grief, she essayed to soothe and comfort her, in which, at last, she succeeded. In the evening Ombreval sent word that he wished to speak to her--and that his need was urgent. But she returned him the answer that she would see him in the morning. She was indisposed that evening, she added, in apology. And in the morning they met, as she had promised him. Both pale, although from different causes, and both showing signs of having slept but little. They broke their fast together and in silence, which at last he ended by asking her whether the night had brought her reflection, and whether such reflection had made her appreciate their position and the need to set out at once. “It needed no reflection to make me realise our position better than I did yesterday,” she answered. “I had hoped that it would have brought you to a different frame of mind. But I am afraid that it has not done so.” “I fail to see what change my frame of mind admits of,” he answered testily. “Have you thought,” she asked at last, and her voice was cold and concentrated, “that this man is giving his life for you?” “I have feared,” he answered, with incredible callousness, “that to save his craven skin he might elect to do differently at the last moment.” She looked at him in a mighty wonder, her dark eyes open to their widest, and looking black by the extreme dilation of the pupils. So vast was her amazement at this unbounded egotism that it almost overruled her disgust. “You cast epithets about you and bestow titles with a magnificent unconsciousness of how well they might fit you.” “Ah? For example?” “In calling this man a craven, you take no thought for the cowardice that actuates you into hiding while he dies for you?” “Cowardice?” he ejaculated. Then a flush spread on his face. “Ma foi, Mademoiselle,” said he, in a quivering voice, “your words betray thoughts that would be scarcely becoming in the Vicomtesse d'Ombreval.” “That, Monsieur, is a point that need give you little thought. I am not likely to become the Vicomtesse.” He bestowed her a look of mingling wonder and anger. Had he, indeed, heard her aright? Did her words imply that she disdained the honour? “Surely,” he gasped, voicing those doubts of his, “you do not mean that you would violate your betrothal contract? You do not--” “I mean, Monsieur,” she cut in, “that I will give myself to no man I do not love.” “Your immodesty,” said he, “falls in nothing short of the extraordinary frame of mind that you appear to be developing in connection with other matters. We shall have you beating a drum and screeching the Ca ira in the streets of Paris presently, like Mademoiselle de Mericourt.”