When her mother and Essex had begun their pictorial migrations she had felt the cold dread of a tête-à-tête with the count creeping over her heart. For a space she had tried to remain attached to Win and Pussy Thornton, but neither Win nor Pussy, who were old friends and had many subjects of mutual interest to discuss, encouraged her society. Maud was not the person to develop diplomatic genius under the most favorable circumstances. Half an hour after the men had entered the drawing-room, she found herself alone with the count, in front of the fire, Win and Pussy having strayed away to the Bouguereau. The count had tried various subjects of conversation, but they had drooped and died after a few minutes of languishing existence. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking curiously at Maud, who sat on the edge of an armchair just within reach of the fluctuating light. Her hands were clasped on her knee and she was looking down so that he could not see her face. Suddenly she rose to her feet and faced him. She was pale and her eyes looked miserable and terrified. “Count de Lamolle,” she breathed in a tremulous voice. “Mademoiselle,” he said, moving toward her, very much surprised by her appearance. “I’ve got to say something to you. It may sound queer, but I’ve got to say it.” “Dear Miss,” said the Frenchman, really concerned by her tragic demeanor, “say whatever pleases you. I am only here to listen.” “You don’t really care for me. Oh, if you’d only tell the truth!” “That is a strange remark,” he said, completely taken by surprise, and wondering what this extraordinary girl was going to say next. “If I thought you really cared it would be different. Perhaps I couldn’t say it. I hate making people miserable, and yet so many people make me miserable.” “Who makes you miserable, dear young lady?” he said, honestly touched. “You,” she almost whispered. “You do. You don’t mean to, I know, for I think you’re kinder than lots of other men. But--but-- Oh please, don’t keep on asking me to marry you. Don’t do it any more; that makes me miserable. Because I can’t do it. Truly, I can’t.” Count de Lamolle became very grave. He drew himself up with an odd, stiff air, like a soldier. “If a lady speaks this way to a man,” he said, “the man can only obey.” Maud hung on his words. When she grasped their import, she suddenly moved toward him. There was something pathetic in her eagerness of gratitude. “Oh, thanks! thanks! I knew you’d do it. It’s not you I object to. I like you better than any of the others. But”--she glanced over her shoulder into the lantern-lit brilliance of the Moorish room and dropped her voice--“there’s some one I like more.” “Oh,” said the count, and his dark eyes turned from her face, which had become very red.