Reine had stopped her sewing for the moment; now she resumed it--so quietly that her mother could scarcely make out whether this news was pleasant to her or not. “I have no preparation to make,” she said, coldly; but her blood was not so much under mastery as her tongue, and rushed in a flood to her face; her fingers, too, stumbled, her needle pricked her, and Madame de Mirfleur, watching, learned something at last--which was that Reine was not so indifferent as she said. “Me, I am not like you, my child,” she said. “My little preparations are always necessary--for example, I cannot see the cousin in my robe de chambre. Julie! quick!--but you, as you are ready, can go and salute him. It is to-day, is it not, that we go to see milady Northcote, who will be kind to you when I am gone away? I will put on my black silk; but you, my child, you who are English, who have always your toilette made from the morning, go, if you will, and see the cousin. There is only Herbert there.” “Mamma,” said Reine, “I heard Herbert say something when I passed the door a little while ago. It was something about me. What has happened to him that he speaks so?--that he thinks so? Has he changed altogether from our Herbert who loved us? Is that common? Oh, must it be? must it be?” “Mon Dieu!” cried the mother, “can I answer for all that a foolish boy will say? Men are fools, ma Reine. They pretend to be wise, and they are fools. But we must not say this--no one says it, though we all know it in our hearts. Tranquillize thyself; when he is older he will know better. It is not worth thy while to remember what he says. Go to the cousin, ma Reine.” “I do not care for the cousin. I wish he were not here. I wish there was no one--no one but ourselves; ourselves! that does not mean anything, now,” cried Reine, indignant and broken-hearted. The tears welled up into her eyes. She did not take what she had heard so calmly as her mother had done. She was sore and mortified, and wounded and cut to the heart. “Juste ciel!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “thy eyes! you will have red eyes if you cry. Julie, fly toward my child--think not more of me. Here is the eau de rose to bathe them; and, quick, some drops of the eau de fleur de orange. I never travel without it, as you know.” “I do not want any fleur de orange, nor eau de rose. I want to be as once we were, when we were fond of each other, when we were happy, when, if I watched him, Bertie knew it was for love, and nobody came between us,” cried the girl. Impossible to tell how sore her heart was, when it thus burst forth--sore because of what she had heard, sore with neglect, and excitement, and expectation, and mortification, which, all together, were more than Reine could bear.