"And why not?" said Adelaide. "Was not the same song sung in honour of the Grand Monarque by the ladies of Versailles? Well, now, Lady Olive, I suppose it is good-night and good-bye. A thousand thanks for all your kindness and hospitality." "And a thousand thanks from me, too," said Sophie. They held out their hands, but Lady Olive put hers behind her, and drew back. "Thank you," she said, frigidly. "You are quite welcome to any kindness that I have been able to show you; but, really, I must ask you to pardon me if I decline to shake hands with you after you have definitely joined the enemies of my family." "Perhaps you are right, Lady Olive," laughed Sophie. "Still, I hope that, at no very distant time, we shall have an opportunity of returning some, at least, of your kindness." A few minutes later hosts and guests were standing outside the western gate, beside which the electric engine and the saloon carriage were waiting to take them to the harbour. The departing guests' luggage had been put on a little truck at the back. "Ah, well, this is the end, I suppose," said Adelaide to Sophie as they stood in the dim twilight of the Northern midnight, exchanging their last formal salutations. "To-night peace; to-morrow war." "But why not war now?" whispered Sophie. "Look! what a chance! Shall we ever have another like it? À la guerre; comme à la guerre!" "Yes," whispered Adelaide in reply. "Ah, sacré! Look there!" As she spoke, Chrysie left Lady Olive's side, went to Hardress, and slipped her arm through his, and looked up at him with an expression that there was no mistaking. Then Adelaide de Condé's long pent-up passion broke loose, and the hot blood of hate began to sing in her head and burn in her eyes. Everything, so far, had failed. She had made herself a criminal, and had been punished by a silent, but humiliating, pardon. She had disgraced herself in the eyes of the man she would have sold her soul to get, and now--well, what did it matter? To-morrow--nay, within six hours, it would be war to the death, Why not begin now, as Sophie had whispered? For the moment she was mad, or she would not have done what she did. But she was mad--mad with failure, hopeless love, and the hatred which only the "woman scorned" can feel. She pulled Chrysie's revolver out of her pocket, and snarled between her teeth: "You have got him, but you shall not keep him!" The revolver went up at the same moment, and she pulled the trigger. Three shots cracked in quick succession. Hardress went down with a broken thigh; Chrysie, in the act of drawing her own revolver, received a bullet in her arm, which was intended for her heart; and the third one went through the hood of her cloak, just touching the skin above the ear.