Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been good friends. He had told her of his nephew’s coming, had hinted at his fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there was something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have come to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and have worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in a grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, and she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had rung all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. She became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his horse. This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, now. Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in deliberate pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she wished! Jacques was called. She said to him: “Come here, little comrade.” Jacques came. “Look at me,” she added. She fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the lights. “Well,” she said after a moment, “what do you think of me?” Jacques was confused. “Madame is beautiful.” “The eyes?” she urged. “I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have never seen such as those,” he said. Race and primitive man spoke there. She laughed. “Come closer, little man.” He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. “Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too.” Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done. Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she said: “The honest fellow!” and hummed an air: “‘The pretty coquette Well she needs to be wise, Though she strike to the heart By a glance of her eyes. “‘For the daintiest bird Is the sport of the storm, And the rose fadeth most When the bosom is warm.’” In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared with Saracen. The horse’s black skin glistened in the lights, and he tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop her, and Gaston caught her shoulder. “He’s wicked with strangers,” Gaston said. “Chat!” she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse’s head and, laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the beast’s nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth. “Enough, madame, he will kill you!” “Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?” “The poor beast is ver’ blind.”